


Hiraeth

by lyracordeila



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Asriel trying less hard, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Marisa trying to be a parent, Mild Sexual Content, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Multi, Sexual Tension, lyra is caught in the middle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyracordeila/pseuds/lyracordeila
Summary: In a world where she never found out about the Gobblers, Lyra is raised in Mrs Coulter's world. Four years later, the truth of her parentage revealed, her old life forgotten, sixteen-year-old Lyra Belacqua is being raised how Marisa always intended.
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 108





	1. Expect Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> 'Being extraordinary takes application. It means being prepared to change'  
> \- Marisa Coulter
> 
> 'Sometimes you've got to have dreams'  
> -Lyra Belacqua

"Are you going to sit and stare at yourself all day", groaned the curled-up pine-marten, who sat lazily on the bed, longingly gazing out of the large windows.

"Give it a rest Pan, you know how important tonight could be," Lyra quipped back, sat with her back turned away from her daemon, staring hopelessly in the mirror at the dark, unruly curls hanging around her head. The large Parisian vanity looming ahead of her seemed to only highlight the imperfections of her appearance; the wild hair, dark eyes, dull skin. Tonight, she needed to be perfect, and she knew she was far from it, and it just wouldn’t do. Simple things like her appearance never seemed to bother Lyra in her childhood, but as indicated by her mother, appearance was everything, the way she looked tonight could affect everything. She had to be perfect, nothing less was expected of her.

"She says everything is important, it's started to lose its meaning, don’t you think?" Pan grumbled.

"Both you and I know she's right, and besides, I think it is important."

"You know what I think is important, actually being allowed to be ourselves for once," the daemon claimed with a matter of fact, jumping angrily off the bed and going to sit in the heat of the windowsill, actively distancing himself from her.

Lyra angrily tore her hand away from the troublesome pin, which was attempting to hold the untamed curls in place and slammed her fist down onto the vanity desk with frustration. Pantalaimon jumped, "Won't you ever just shut up Pan, this is me being myself, I want to impress tonight, and you should too". After a small silence, she relaxed her white knuckles and breathed out slowly, in an attempt to release the suffocating breath trapped inside her. ‘I want this’ she claimed, but both daemon and girl knew it wasn’t a statement, but an attempt to convince herself.

It wasn’t a lie, Lyra knew what a lie could be, but admittedly it wasn’t directly the truth. She loved her new life in London, and for the first time in these four years, she felt as if she was finally getting the hang of it. It hadn't been easy to adapt, the overwhelming expectations were far greater than anything she once had in Oxford. Mrs Coulter, her mother, had explained to her that this was most likely because she didn’t have a true purpose at Jordan Collage, just a simple child who ran around and occasionally caused trouble, but in London she could have anything she wanted. The greatest adaptation she had to make, of course, was that she was not actually an orphan. Mrs Coulter had waited a few months to explain to Lyra the truth of the situation, wanting her to settle down in her new world before presenting her with more challenges. The conversation was fueled with emotion, both anger and sadness, hatred and love, taking place in Mrs Coulter's bedroom whilst Marisa sat combing Lyra’s hair. To Lyra, the whole conversation felt like a blur, and honestly, she couldn’t remember everything that was shared, it was all mixed up with memories of tears and white silk bed sheets. Marisa allowed Lyra to sleep in her bed that night, both mother and daughter exhausted from the exchange of questions and answers, not wanting to let her daughter out of her sight ever again, especially now she knew the truth.

But that was years ago, and Lyra knew that tonight wasn’t the night to dwell on the past. Her mother was holding her annual cocktail soirée at the apartment, guests from all over where expected, dozens of members of the Royal Arctic Institute, a few Lords and Ladies, undoubtedly some high ranked Magisterium officials, her mother had murmured something about a Duke, but the most important guest to Lyra was her father. Even the thought of him made something light up inside her, pride. She wasn’t even sure if he was coming, he certainly wasn’t invited, but if Lord Asriel heard that Marisa Coulter was having a party, he would see to it that he made an appearance. Lyra hadn't really had the chance to see her father, after leaving Oxford, but after her mother revealed the truth of her parentage, the next time he was in Oxford Marisa made sure that the two of them had a conversation. It was remarkable to the child how different her parents where, the conversation in which her mother explained the truth was driven with empathy and concern, whilst the brief meeting with her father was quick and factual. He disappeared for a long while after that.

_"Oh Lyra, you know how much that man loves the north," her mother sighed, not even lifting her eyes off the book she was avidly studying._

_"What's he even doing there, I thought you said he wasn’t scheduled to go until next March," Lyra replied, folding her arms in frustration._

_"They gave him grant money early, couldn’t wait to get his hands on some new toys I assume," Marisa replied with a frank tone, the same she always did when the topic of Lyra’s father came up._

But, to Marisa's frustration, in true Asriel fashion, he turned up to their apartment bright and early on August nineteenth, the day of Lyra’s thirteenth birthday, after being hidden for six months.

It was a gentle knock on her door that brought the girl's attention back to reality, "Lyra," the singsong voice gently called. The door creeped opened to reveal her mother, hair curled to perfection, bright eyes beaming amongst the perfectly applied makeup, even her teal silk dressing gown lacked a single crease. The image of her was something that normally made Lyra beam, the perfection of her mother was undeniable, but today, of all days, it only made her feel worse about the straggly figure reflected in the mirror. Sensing the situation, Marisa sighed as her daughter’s eyes adverted from the doorway back to the mirror.

"I suppose you might need a hand?" She questioned with a slanted, sympathetic smile.

"It's hopeless, I give up," Lyra replied, setting down the pins in defeat.

"Yes, perhaps we should just cut it all off and start, again shall we?" Her mother teased, scrapping the dark locks lightly off her daughter's face.

"I prefer it short," muttered an angry (and incredibly bored) Pantalaimon, who was still dozing in the sunlight.

Both mother and child ignored the daemon, the golden monkey heading over to the small pine marten but sat obediently on the floor below the window. Her mother pulled up a nearby armchair, and gracefully sat down, taking a few of the pins which were spilled out around the vanity, and began taming the wild beast that was her daughter's hair. The colour certainly, reflected that of her own, but the wildness and frequent matting were definitely inherited from Asriel.

"Now," Marisa started, whist expertly beginning to frame her daughter's face in gentle waves, "you understand how important tonight will be. For both of us," Lyra opened her mouth to speak, but the ever so slight tug of her from her mother, supposedly tackling the worst of the knots, left her with no response.

"I expect the best behaviour from you, delightful and charming as ever, do you understand Lyra?"

Lyra caught her mother's reflection in the mirror, she was clearly serious underneath that sweet expression, her eyebrows gently raised, clearly wanting a response.

"Of course, mother. I’m looking forward to it," Lyra smiled, that wasn’t directly a lie, she was looking forward to it, she loved charming the members of the Arctic Institute, as well as hearing all their stories of the North- a place she had dreamed of every day since she could remember, somewhere she was still yet to experience herself. Secretly she was most excited to see if her father magically turned up, although she would never admit this to her mother. Their relationship confused her, sometimes they act as if they were the closest friends in the world, as if they spend each minute of every day together, and other times, they act as if they have never met.

"Adults are weird," Pan muttered to her. He was right, adults were something Lyra was yet to get her head around.

"Remember your manners of course, engaging in enough conservation to appear polite and interested, but not so you seem childish Lyra. You may be young, but you are coming to an age where the impression you leave amongst these people could have a great impact on your future. I understand Mrs Relf is coming tonight, the head of St Sophias College. Oh, and remember if you see anyone there who you don’t recognize, you must come and find me straight away darling."

"I know mother," Lyra’s memory drifting to one of the first parties she had attended with her mother in London, in which a lady from the press turned up uninvited and began hounding Lyra with all sorts of strange questions.

"There. All finished," said her mother, gently stroking Lyra’s cheek, "much better."

It was much better, her hair pinned back in a way that allowed the curls to frame her face rather than hide it but still left it down in a girlish fashion. It wasn't as perfect as her mother's, but Lyra did like to believe they looked similar.

"Now, I need to get dressed, as do you. Your dress from the dry cleaners is hanging in your wardrobe. Lyra, once it's on, I do not want to see you running around in it, not one crease." The patronizing tone in her mother's voice was undeniable, but she knew she was right. Perfection was necessary tonight. Her mother's stern face gently melted into something much softer as she stared at the growing girl in front of her. "You know, I used to wear my hair just like that when I was your age," she said with a perfect smile.

As her mother left the room, Lyra pulled out the dress from the wardrobe with intense caution, and carefully placed it on the bed beside her. It was the most perfect shade of blue, mid-length (dress length, according to her mother was something never to be overlooked, too short and it becomes childish on girls of her age, too long and you'll begin to look far too old. Lyra never really understood these sort of things), and a ribbon at the waist, something she will need her mother's assistance to tie up at the back.

She sat slowly on the bed, staring at the blue satin next to her, desperately trying to focus on all the names she must remember tonight, and not the fact that she never used to feel this anxious at Jordan Collage.


	2. The Cocktail Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marisa Coulter's annual cocktail party is in full swing, and the delightful Lyra Belacqua begins to charm all those attending, but how will these guests react when a familiar face decides to make an appearance.

Mrs Coulter's living room was enveloped in the gentle buzzing of intellectual discussion and melodic laugher, full of fashionably dressed ladies and distinguished men, outfits of every colour sweeping between the perfectly decorated apartment. Lyra tactfully moved amongst them, offering fresh drinks or smiling sweetly, contributing small but intellectual snippets of conversation amongst different groups of people.

Of course, she had been prepared for this; spending the last few evenings curled up on the sofa, pen in hand, jotting down all the names her mother mentioned.

_“We must have the Archbishop, creates far more trouble not inviting him, although he can be the most hateful snob. Doctor Eliezer Broken Arrow is in town; he’ll be fun. Oh, and Duchess Postnikova. I wonder if it would be alright to invite Erik Anderson? Lord Boreal, of course.”_

_Lyra focused intensely on all the names, yet she only really recognised two. Eliezer Broken Arrow, the Skraeling that first mapped the currents of the Great Northern Ocean, and Lord Boreal. Lyra admittedly wasn’t the greatest fan of Boreal, his daemon always tended to make Pan feel uneasy, but he was a close acquaintance of her mothers, and therefore she just had to accept his uncomfortable presence._

_Despite not truly recognizing the other names (her mother knew so many prestigious people that the titles began to go in one ear and out the other) she gave her input nonetheless. She dutifully wrote down each one and reminded herself how she must try and revise them over the next few days._

_As if her mother could hear the thoughts in her head, she shifted her attention away from her events calendar and turned to face Lyra, tilting her head slightly, “You will be wonderful darling, you always are,’ offering a small but comforting smile._

_“I just know how important these parties are to you, and they aren't exactly my ideal pass time,” Lyra tried to focus on the messy notes on her lap, not wishing to meet her mother’s curious eyes._

_“I used to always despise my mother's endless parties too, but one day you will understand the impact they can have. You enjoy talking to the members of the Arctic Institute, don’t you? Hearing all those endless stories about the North?”_

_Lyra sighed, “well, it's not like I've ever actually been there...”_

_“Lyra,” her mother replied sharply, “we’ve had this conversation hundreds of times, you have to finish school first, the North is no place for a child. I have promised countless times that you and I will go when the time is right.”_

_The undoubtable raise in tone signified it was time to drop the subject. It wasn’t worth getting in a fight this late in the evening, especially if it meant having to sit through an unbearable breakfast the next day._

_“Right, time for bed I think,” the anger in her mother's tone had melted, and Lyra did as she was told._

_As she got herself ready, Pantalamion whispered: “She’s never going to take us North, we’re going to be stuck here forever.”_

_Lyra laughed, ‘don't be so dramatic Pan, we went to Geneva last summer, and the summer before that. Anyway, it's not like we can just run off to the north, I have school remember?”_

_“She only takes us to Geneva because it looks like a holiday, but she really just needs to go for the Magisterium, and since when do we care about school, I prefer the running off to the North idea.”_

_“Give it a rest Pan,” Lyra murmured into the silk sheets which had completely engulfed the pair. She turned her back and closed her eyes. What Pan had said wasn’t entirely true, but it didn’t stop her from thinking about it. She loved her life in London and loved being with her mother, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling of confinement that was constantly creeping up on her. It worsened at night when she could find time to reflect on the person she once was. At Jordan College, all Lyra could think about was the North, it was one of the only things in her memory that never faltered or changed, and when she agreed to be Mrs Coulter's assistant she truly believed she would finally get to experience it. How naive she once was, four years now and the closest she had gotten to seeing an armoured bear was when there was the smallest snowfall in London. She and Pan ran around the parks all day, much to her mother's dismay, Pan changing into all sorts of arctic creatures. She smiled fondly in the darkness of her bedroom, remembering times in which Pan could change. He settled as a pine marten now, the perfect mix of monkey and snow leopard, and even though he was still Lyra’s dear friend, they had started to bicker a lot more than they used to._

Lyra was brought out of her daydream to her mother nudging her in the hallway of the apartment,

“Have the caterers brought enough ice? Be a dear and go and ask. Warm drinks are horrid...”

Lyra found it quite easy to pretend to be light-hearted and charming, though she was conscious every second of Pantalamion’s disgust, and of his hatred for the rather uncomfortable silk Lyra was adorning. He couldn’t help but remind Lyra of how much he was feeling like they had become a universal pet. But Lyra couldn’t help but just ignore him. The combination of her mother's assistance with her hair, the lightly applied makeup and brilliant party dress allowed Lyra to glow with a sense of her own prettiness. She trotted down the hall, leaving her mother to return to the party, heading to check on the order of the kitchen. Truth be told, Lyra enjoyed the authority being Mrs Coulters' daughter had given her, it only took her presence in the kitchen for the caterers to tense up slightly. After requesting the ice and a few polite exchanges, Lyra span around on her heels and heading back out to grace the adults with her sweetness.

The next hour consisted of Lyra getting stuck in a conversation with a small group of women, a few she recognized as her mother's friends, a few she remembered from her list of Magisterium wives. They practically quizzed her about all the different activities she was doing.

“Oh, how is St Mary’s these days Lyra? I hear you’re following in your mother's footsteps on the debate team!”

“Well, I hear you’re an expert in the piano, we simply must hear something later on.”

“Still keeping up with the ballet I assume, my Cecelia could never keep up with you!”

Lyra responded to the overwhelming number of questions with charming, yet rather simple answers. She knew these types of woman, completely competitive with each other and their own families, hence why her own mother had insisted Lyra participated in such endeavours. But truth be told she really didn’t care about such things. Debating she enjoyed, Lyra knew it had become the only socially acceptable way she could argue with people, and she did rival in manipulating her opponents. Ballet and the piano, on the other hand, were purely her mother's ideas. A way to healthily suppress the amount of energy she had, her mother often explained, normally when she complained about them.

Briefly, she caught the eyes of her mother, who was laughing graceful amongst a group of men. The better-dressed men, Lyra thought, most likely making them Magisterium, or perhaps the Duke was upon them? The party had been going on for a few hours now, and her brain was starting to become rather scrambled, forgetting all the names she had studied the previous night. The swift rise of her mother's eyebrow, which was clearly pointed in Lyra’s direction, underlined it was clearly time to keep circling the room. Lyra gracefully excused herself from the chattering woman, who practically ignored her, deep in discussions about the colour of the curtains.

She needed to take a break, at first, she began to head for the terrace door but seeing Lord Boreal headed in her direction made her swiftly turn around and head for the corridor, Pan quick on her heels. Only when she had escaped the noise of the room had she realized how stuffy it was in there. She leant against the wall, exhausted, allowing herself to relax and soak up the coolness of the marble. Her eyes trailed along the floor until she let them settle on the grand mirror that sat across from her, pulling herself out of her slump she walked over to it. The anbaric lights danced over her silk dress, like the way little specks of sunbeams dazzled on the top of water. She swayed from side to side and admired how the little pools of light glowed around her.

“Christ, she has reflected herself onto you hasn’t she,” an unforgettable voice quipped from further down the hall.

Lyra stopped dead in her tracks, not only because of the vulgar language but she started to feel rather silly prancing around like a child, knowing exactly who the voice belonged to. She couldn’t believe he turned up, the last time she had seen her father was on a short visit back to Oxford, around five months ago, when her mother was required to attend a seminar. Even then, it was more nothing more than a simple glance at him. Lyra opened her mouth to protest but Asriel got there first.

“I'm not sure if I can handle having two versions of Marisa in my life.”

“Well, it's not like you attempt to handle either of us anyway, when was the last time you saw us? Oh, and besides, I don’t remember seeing your name on the invite list.” Lyra huffed back in response, thinking she had truly outwitted him.

“I'm sure your mother would love to see me regardless though,” He smirked at Lyra, “where has she got too, not like her to not welcome her guests.”

And with that, he headed into the party, without so much as a care in the world. As much as he frustrated Lyra, his quick wit had always impressed her, but not as much as the fact that he never cared about perfection or expectations, the same way her mother did. Asriel did what he liked when he felt like doing it. Lyra couldn’t help but admire him for that. She quickly turned down the corridor and headed for the back entrance of the living room, hoping she could warn her mother of his presence before he got to her first.

She had seen enough in society to understand when men and women were flirting, and the closeness between her mother and Lord Boreal was undeniable. She was fascinated by it, she could never figure out the playful relationship between them, though she was more fascinated by the mention of her name and hung back to listen. Yet, she couldn’t gain much from their close conversation, as she watched her mother's gaze drift from Boreal’s tie to the snow leopard that had now captured the golden monkey's interest. Lyra watched as their daemons move to each other like magnets across the room. Yet, at first, her mother didn’t get up to follow it, but slowly twisted her head around, her eyes instantly meeting his, connecting as easily as their daemons.

-

“Excuse me,” she muttered to Boreal with a smile, remarkably close to his face.

Smoothing out her dress as she sat up from the sofa, she gracefully walked across the room but stopped dead as she saw Lyra, noticing her head peering out from around the doorway.

“Lyra, darling, go and check reception, we seem to have a minor slip up,” yet when Lyra didn’t move, she shot her a look to indicate that she wasn’t joking. Lyra needed to be removed from the situation with Asriel, it simply wasn’t good for her. Normally, she would make him wait for her and pretend she hadn't even noticed he was there, and instead continue flirting with Boreal, knowing the envy it would cause. Today she couldn’t afford to do that, not with Lyra at stake. Yet, to Marisa’s surprise, Asriel wasn’t waiting for her to approach, but he had already engaged in conversation with Adelaide Mars, the intensely blonde (both hair and brains) wife to Christopher Mars, a dear friend of the Magisterium.

“Lord Asriel,” Marisa interjected with a menacing smile, “it’s remarkable to see you in daylight,” she remarked with utter nonchalance, taking a step closer to close the air between them.

“Mrs Coulter, a pleasure as always,” he smirked back, raising his glass towards her, “have you had the chance to meet Mrs Mars?”

“Of course, Adelaide, in fact, I believe your husband was looking for you, I recall last seeing him on the terrace?”

The young blonde hurried away, far too caught up in her own world to acknowledge the building tension between the two characters she was previously caught between.

“Always finding ways to ruin the fun, Marisa,” Asriel teased, taking extra care to draw out her name, after slowly slipping the wine he was swirling around the glass, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Well her husband’s just around the corner” Marisa quipped back.

“I don’t recall that ever stopping me before,” he chuckled in response.

Marisa could only bring herself to roll her eyes, focusing more on composing herself than an intelligent response. There were far too many important people in this room to cause a scene, the most important being her daughter, she couldn’t bring herself to make anymore... mistakes with that man, it would only hurt Lyra.

“You’re living in a fantasy world, you're not happy.”

Well, that certainly brought her back to reality.

“Oh, and why shouldn’t I be?”

There was a pause, she knew what he meant; she's not happy without him.

“How could you manipulate the girl like that, she's becoming more like you every day. Doesn’t it scare you?”

“Ha...” she drawled, “don't act like you’re here because of her,” she tilted her head in the same patronizing manner she normally ends up having to use on Lyra, and gently brushes out a crease on the shoulder of his shirt.

“You like it that I'm here though, regardless of who I’m here for, don’t deny it Marisa,” he took a step closer, heading into dangerous territory, an attempt to test the waters between them.

Composing herself by taking a sharp inhale, knowing that she needed to put an end to this, “We aren't doing this here Asriel, see yourself out”, shooting him a smile to contrast with the bitter statement.

She gracefully removed the glass from his hand and drank from it herself, taking a moment to look into his piercing blue eyes one last time, before turning and finding Lyra, both to see that she wasn’t getting into trouble, but also ensure that Asriel didn’t create the trouble for her. They both knew he simply wasn't going to leave just because she asked. It was better if she removed herself from the situation, she knew how people simply loved to talk.

-

Lyra, for the rest of the evening, witnessed the evident separation between her parents. The men began to settle down out on the terrace to smoke cigars and the women gathered around the sofas, gossiping about this season's fashion trends and the most desirable new dining locations. Her mother, clearly having no interest in the frivolous conversation, drifted between the two, playing hostess to disguise from her boredom.

-

It wasn’t until the couples began saying goodbyes, and the air was clearing inside the flat, Marisa’s attention turned back to Lyra.

“You were absolutely wonderful daring,” she muttered pulling her daughter into her arms, gently stroking her hair, which was beginning to battle against the pins holding it up. She could have stayed there forever, holding her darling girl against her, but a shifting figure on the terrace focused her attention.

“Time for bed I think, give me a minute, I'll be there shortly.”

She spoke softly, her chin still resting on Lyra’s head. The coldness surrounded her as her daughter pulled herself away, but she couldn’t worry about that when Asriel was just around the corner, inevitably waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mainly inspired by the original 'The Cocktail Party' chapter in the Northern Lights. Unfortunately, I got a bit carried away and made this chapter rather long so had to slip it in half- I promise some Masirel is coming up!  
> Thanks to all the love on the previous chapter, definitely motivated me to make this a small series. Again, I am in no way a professional so excuse any clunky writing!  
> Feel free to send requests or ideas to me using Tumblr (@Lyracordelia) :)


	3. Navy Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stolen moment between two lovers in the moonlight 
> 
> “Well there're so many sinking now  
> You've got to keep thinking  
> You can make it through these waves”  
> \- Blue, Joni Mitchell 
> 
> 'Et la nuit je pleure des larmes qui coulent le long de mes joues  
> Je ne pense à toi que quand le jour sombre, que s'abattent sur moi  
> Mes tristes démons, dans l'abîme sans fond'
> 
> 'And at night I cry tears that stream down my cheeks.  
> I think of you only when the days ends, only when  
> my sad demons fall heavily on me, into the endless abyss'  
> \- Amour Plastique, Videoclub

Beyond the French doors of the now-empty apartment, soft city lights glowed against the navy-blue sky. No more than an hour ago the world was painted with hues of reds and pinks, but all the colour had now faded, leaving only a dark canvas, a majestic view of the skyline appeared in startling beauty with no clouds left to cover the star-speckled sky. Marisa stood in the doorway of the terrace for a moment, allowing herself to slowly take in the figure standing in front of her, a figure ingrained in her memory. Standing with his back to her, he was staring intensely at the glittering lights that blanketed London, not yet aware of her presence.

Marisa knew she could handle this situation in two different ways; either attack, all guns blazing and condemn him for ruining her party, or she could allow herself to savour the intimate moment between them, one that they both knew couldn’t last. She took a deep breath and headed over to him, simply standing at his side, shoulder to shoulder, equal next to equal. Their daemons instantly betraying them, already breaking the separation they had been enduring these last few hours, the golden monkey finding a comforting warmth against the snow leopards fur. The coolness of the Autumn air hit Marisa’s face gently, blowing her loose trestles of hair in the wind, worsening the coldness she felt without being in his arms. The bitter night gave the separated souls ever more reason to draw closer to one another, to feel the natural warmth they were born to share. There they stood for a long while, saying nothing, simply soaking up each other’s presence in the darkness of the city, knowing at some point they would be ripped away.

“I never really liked London, too crowded, but this is something I could get used to.” Asriel mummed, still not taking his eyes off the aureate lights of the city.

“It’s Lyra’s favourite too, she used to spend hours out here when she first arrived," it was the only thing she could think to reply with, how much he reminded her of their child.

She allowed her head to turn slightly, dragging her eyes away from the sky to focus on his mischievous eyes.

“Asriel what are you doing here,” she asked, longing for the truth. Perhaps the sweetness was a form of manipulation, or maybe she was tired of playing games, she simply didn’t know anymore. That’s what their relationship was, nothing more than a game. Every time they reunited, it was a race to see who could win, who could crack, who would reveal their true identity.

“I wanted to see that you’re not corrupting her, filling her mind with wickedness. I know you Marisa.”

It was a low blow, and he knew it, but it wasn’t like Asriel to evade from the truth.

“Such a liar,” Marisa drawled sweetly, shaking her head, “you’re not here for her," her lips curling into a syrupy smile.

She took a deep breath, turning her attention back onto the wide world ahead of her, trying to stop herself from playing the twisted games.

Yet, she knew how badly she needed the upper hand, “You can’t keep walking in and out of her life, you’re her father, it’s not fair. Think of me what you like, but I am only trying to do what’s best.”

“Don’t make me call myself a father, just because you’ve chosen to act the role of ‘mother’, you chose this distance Marisa, or are you forgetting that impressive act at the trial, the way you so easily walked away,” he replied stubbornly, practically spitting the words at her, “It will only hurt her more, I need to be able to do what I like.”

“You can do what you like,” She snapped back, tensing her whole body, the Golden Monkey pulling himself away from Stelmaria.

Allowing herself to take a minute, she began to focus on the people walking in the street, far below them, wondering what their own simple lives must look like.

“You’re a man. You can waltz into parties uninvited, flirt with whomever you like, push the boundaries of heretical ideas, and no one will do so much as to bat an eyelid. But, if that was me, well, the world is different, different for Lyra, and I’m trying to set her up for a future where she can thrive in it as much as possible.”

There is silence for a moment, nothing but the subtle sounds of the city to mask the tension.

“It’s hard for her, our…relationship,” Asriel asked, his voice thick with sincerity; but the smile creeping across his face suggested otherwise, the snow leopard creeping back to the warmth of the monkey.

It was twisted honesty, an attempt to purge the air of the toxic relationship they had formed with each other over these last seventeen years. Marisa couldn’t deny that it came with a shock. Allowing herself to glance back to his face, she hoped she wouldn’t melt as she looked into his bright eyes which were now watching her closely. He looked deep into her soul as if he was searching for something; the last ounce of goodness left in her.

“It hasn’t been easy, but she’s just as suborn as you,” she let out the smallest chuckle, “She doesn’t let the childish teasing affect her, she’s so talented Asriel, it speaks for itself, shuts everyone up.”

She took the time to focus on saying his name, an ache in her heart as she did so, trying not to admit to herself that she did truly miss him. Although she would never let him know how much.

“I actually think she gets the stubbornness from you,” he laughed, breaking the tension between them. “It’s remarkable isn’t, how we made something like that,” his eyes drifting from hers to focus on a loose strand of hair, which he gently tucked behind her ear. “Us, all full of sin, creating something so pure.”

His stand slipped away from Marisa’s ear, and gently moved over her jaw, tilting her head so their eyes could meet once again.

“Of course, she’s talented, she’s the product of something extraordinary," he muttered, getting distracted in the complexity of her face.

“She’s perfect,” Marisa whispered.

“Do you truly love her?”

“I love her with everything I have.”

Marisa let the toxic phrase slip from her lips, knowing, deep down, the sincerity behind it. She had Lyra in her life now and there was nothing anyone could do to get in the way of that, not even Asriel Belacqua.

Nothing more needed to be said between the pair, as Asriel's hand moved slowly from her jaw to her lips, soaking up the sadness in her eyes as he did so. He closed the rest of the gap between them, cupping her face with his hands, pulling her in for a deep but gentle kiss, something not from passion or lust, but love. It felt as if the world melted away from around them as if nothing else mattered now they were in each other’s arms, like soft rain on a summer evening. Her delicate lips brushed his, softly, like a butterflies wing, just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin. Once, twice, until Marisa realised, she would never have enough.

She kissed him again; gently, carefully, but she knew it wasn’t gentleness he wanted now, not after all this time. Suddenly, he was everywhere; up her back, over her arms, kissing her harder deeper, with the same passionate urgency they had always had. She felt again the rush of helplessness as he groaned softly, low in his throat, his arms circled her, gathering her tightly against him. Their mouths were fastened together with powerful greed. Their daemons playing fiercely; the snow leopard rolled over on her back, and the monkey raking his claws in the soft fur of her neck, and she growled in a deep rumble of pleasure.

But it was short-lived, “no,” she said faintly, still close enough to feel his breath, “no.”

“Marisa,” he muttered against her as if to convince her to stay with him. Now and forever.

She hesitated; her eyes closed, but she didn’t move away quite yet, allowing herself to stay in his arms a minute or two more; taking in his scent, his warmth, his love. Their foreheads pressed together; the silence broken by the soft sounds of breath being gathered. But she knew she needed to be strong, for Lyra’s sake. For a moment, she seemed to sway as if she was fainting; but she kept her balance and opened her eyes again, an infinite beautiful sadness in them.

“We could have this,” he tried to explain, “there is nothing stopping us anymore, you just have to let me in,” his grip began to tighten around her waist, holding her as close to him as possible, anger clearly brewing.

“No” She repeated, with the same sadness as before, but twice the force, “we can’t, nothing has changed,” smiling sadly at him.

Their daemons were apart again. As Asriel focused one last time on her face, knowing there was nothing he could say to make her change her mind. He studied the slow falling tears glistening in her eyes; they were real.

“Goodbye Asriel,” Marisa turned, shaking with silent sobs, and moved out of the terrace and out of his sight.

She knew how to not let her tears fall when it started to hurt, it was a skill she had expertly mastered, but something about his man would strip away her inner strength. Marisa was like snow, beautiful on the surface but cold and pitiful to the touch. But, the longer you hold snow the more it begins to change, it melts in your palms, and he knew that. Asriel knew if he held onto her, her walls would come down as if he was the fire that sparked the wild flame, and her merciless display would disappear. So, he would wait for the snow queen to melt underneath his feral spark.

He didn’t chase her, she expected that, all she knew is that looking back at him created more harm than good. It wasn’t that she had become weaker, but that she needed to face the truth.

_You’re as weak as they say you are_

Her thoughts hounded her, digging into every aspect of her consciousness. They would never work, they could never work, and it would only create more damage for everyone. She wasn’t going to be the one to put Lyra through that. It wasn't love, she convinced herself over and over, blocking out all protest from her troublesome daemon.

As she wandered down the corridor, she stopped for a minute to compose herself. Gently breathing, wiping the pathetic tears off her face. She desperately tried to block out the melodic chime of the elevator being called, he was gone, and she was alone again.

_We’re not alone, we have Lyra, but we could have both_

Taking a sharp inhale, she smacked the Monkey across its head, enduring the painful twinge down her spine. She began to feel the all so familiar guttural rage brewing inside her and clamped her fists tightly to suppress her wild, uncontrollable emotions, ignoring the red specks of blood appearing on her palms. She couldn’t afford to think like that, yet she couldn’t ignore the taste of his wine left on her lips, and the ache surrounding her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, found this chapter the hardest to write so far, and still not sure if I'm 100% happy, Marisa and Asriel are complicated lol. Took most of my inspiration from ‘that’ scene at the end of northern lights (I wanted something with more feels than pure masriel angst). Definitely will be seeing more of these two in the future, most likely with a bit more fight in them, let me know what you think!


	4. Origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, darlin', don't you ever grow up  
> Don't you ever grow up  
> It could stay this simple  
> I won't let nobody hurt you  
> Won't let no one break your heart  
> And no one will desert you  
> Just try to never grow up  
> \- Never Grow up, Taylor Swift 
> 
> Cause I'm right here  
> Darlin', I'm right here  
> Close your pretty eyes, my butterfly  
> Baby, have no fear  
> \- Butterfly's Repose, Zabawa

The silence of Lyra’s bedroom was broken up by the sound of manic pacing

“Lyra, I don’t think we should be doing this” whispered the alert pine marten

She didn’t respond, but crept back to her door, softly pressing her ear against it. Knowing she couldn’t leave the confinement of her bedroom until all the staff had left for the evening, she longed to catch a glimpse of her parents together before it was too late. She wasn't naive, her mother would always tuck her straight into bed after a soirée, Mrs Coulter ensured Lyra’s sleep schedule was kept to similar timings regardless of parties, she couldn’t thrive if she was deprived of rest, but tonight was different. After leaving her mother to get ready for bed, she had waited a few minutes for her imminent arrival, but Marisa Coulter was yet to appear. Lyra knew why; she had watched the elevator with fierce concentration when the guests started to leave, and unless she blinked at the exact wrong moment, she knew her father hadn't left yet. That’s where her mother must be.

When Lyra was sure there was silence, she slipped off her party shoes and crept out into the hall, barefoot.

“They're going to see us,” Pan argued, his voice nothing more than a mumble of protest, as he quickly trotted down the corridor to ensure there was no one about.

“Well, if they do, I’ll just say I was simply making a camomile tea before bed, or perhaps some chocolatl?”

“I don’t think the type of drink will be the problem when the kitchen is the other end of the apartment.”

Ok, so Pan was right, Lyra thought to herself, but she felt as if she needed to see them together, regardless of the consequences. She grew up believing she was an orphan, her parents dying tragically in an airship, but now they were all together, her mother and father reincarnated, a moment her younger self simply only dreamed of. It wasn't the first time Lyra had seen them together of course; there had been many awkward run-ins at the Artic Institute, quick surprises on her birthday, occasional visits to Oxford, but nothing as romantic as this. She knew, of course, not to fool herself into thinking it would last, but she savoured the intimate, and rather childish, moments where she could secretly picture them as a family.

The living room, to Lyra’s surprise, was completely empty.

“Perhaps he left,” Pan offered sympathetically, already heading back towards their bedroom.

But she wasn’t in the mood to give up. Questioning whether they were in the study, Lyra began to tiptoe across the room when she caught sight of the two figures standing outside on the terrace. She quickly slipped behind the curtains of the French sliding doors, a feeble attempt to hide herself, and strained her neck to catch another glimpse of her parents, who were beautifully illuminated in the moonlight. Like a child playing hide and seek, she held her breath, not wanting to give herself away and ruin the delicacy of their moment together. There, Lyra could have stayed all evening, slowly watching the lovers soak up each other's presence, glowing softly against the navy blue sky above, an image she would secretly treasure forever.

It was Pan who brought her back to earth, “Lyra we should go.”

In that moment, her mother's gaze drifted from her father's eyes for just a second, as if to focus on the door frame. Lyra wasn’t sure if she had imagined it or not, but even so, it was enough to remind her she wasn’t supposed to be there. Slowly, she crawled away from the security of the curtains, not daring to stand up until she had reached the sofas, then when she was sure she was out of sight, dashed as quickly as she could back to her room.

Once she was inside, the door shut firmly, she jumped onto her bed and pressed a large smile against the pillows, her heart filling with a false sense of hope. Her mind was swimming with images of her parents happily together after all this time.

 _Don’t get your hopes up,_ Pan reminded her.

After the original excitement had faded away, she was brought back to reality after realising she was still dressed in her party clothes, something her mother would obviously notice. If her mother saw her like this, flustered and not at all ready for bed, she would obviously know what Lyra had been up to. Her mother knew everything, no matter how good she had become at lying.

“Lyra someone's called the elevator.”

Just like that, her heart sank. She knew it was too good to be true, but she would have liked to hold onto the dream for just a while longer. Her father was leaving, and once again he didn’t say goodbye.

That’s what always hurt her most. Not the fact that they weren't a family; in their own twisted way, they were. What played on Lyra’s mind most was that he never truly focused on her. She had known Lord Asriel a lot longer than Mrs Coulter, although, of course, she knew him as her ‘uncle’, and despite not seeing him much, his rare visits to Jordan collage always placed a thrill in her heart. But, each time he left her and never said a real goodbye.

_“Uncle,” Lyra practically screamed scrambling into the airship, “Uncle!”_

_“What, what are you doing here? I'm Busy,” Asriel shouted back, banging his head on the metal of the cramped space, rushing around in order to leave swiftly._

_“You’re not leaving!” Lyra demanded, crossing her arms firmly, her hair blowing wildly in the wind; she looked practically feral._

_“I can't stay, and besides I've got what I came for.’_

_Lyra compressed her lips and frowned hard at her uncle. He brushed past her and began pumping the air from the vacuum flask and took no notice._

_“Be a good girl, try and learn something and I'll see you on the way back.”_

_“Please uncle, you’ve only just arrived, we’ve hardly talked," her strong facade was slowly breaking, how desperately she wanted him, her only relative, to stay, to care about her for just once._

_“Lines up,” he shouted to one of his men, brushing past her once again. His daemon growled with a deep savage rumble that made Lyra suddenly aware of what it would be like to have teeth meeting in her throat._

_He watched the young girl refuse to move, and firmly placed his hands on his shoulder, “I'm sorry, but I just don’t have time for you right now. I...”_

_With that, he practically pushed her down the ramp and off the ship,_

_“Let's go!” He shouted, to anyone else other than her._

_“Take me North, you promised you would! Take me with you, we would have lots of time then!” Lyra pleaded._

_“You’re not coming, put that out of your head. The North is no place for a child,” and with that, he turned away._

_Lyra took a deep breath and played her final card._

_“Did it look like this?”_

_It caught his attention, “What?” he questioned, turning around._

_“The airship my parents died in?” she shouted with all her might, hoping to be heard against the violent noise of the aircraft._

_There was a moment of silence, for a second Lyra believed he was struggling for words, it was the first time she had ever seen her uncle do so._

_“No... no, it was smaller.”_

_In a quick glance, his eyes met hers, she could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes, but a moment later he was gone, closing the airship’s door and began to take off. It was as if he’d already forgotten her. Without a word, but with lips tight and narrowed eyes, the girl and daemon left and went back to bed._

With the memory ingrained in Lyra’s mind, she practically ripped off the suffocating silk and threw the dress over the chair. The party dress was a symbol of the person she was forced to become, Lyra didn't want to live her life on her mother's terms, she didn't want to be the model offspring, the incarnation of her ideas, and perhaps if she didn’t try to be her father would see her differently. She knew she was being ridiculous, having a tantrum like a petulant child, but she was too tired to care. It wasn’t until she was dressed in pyjamas and sat on her bed, pulling out the last of the pins in her hair in pure frustration, that she began to calm down, blocking out the drowning feeling of neglect. Even if she was turning into someone different, at least she knew her mother cared, something she believed her father would never do. Just when she was beginning to settle down there was a knock at the door.

“Lyra?”

It was her mother of course, who entered, regardless of the response.

“Lyra how many times have I told you not to leave clothes tossed around your room.”

The anger in her voice was imminent. Great, Lyra thought, the last thing she wanted right now was a fight with her mother about clothing. So, she said nothing, and instead focused on the pile of pins sat in front of her.

“Lyra?” her mother snapped, snatching up the bundle of silk carelessly hurled on the back of the chair.

There was another pause.

“Lyra Belacqua, how many ti...”

“He’s gone, hasn’t he,” she interrupted, not daring to look up from the pins, Pan creeping up onto the bed to evade the grasp of the troublesome monkey.

It clearly took her mother by surprise, as she set the dress back where she found it and headed over to take a seat by Lyra’s side.

“He’s got work to be doing up in Oxford.”

“So, he’s not staying in London?”

Staying in London really meant staying here, with them.

“No.”

There was a pause, the air full of disappointment, neither mother nor child having anything to offer in terms of comfort. Lyra slowly looked up from her lap to focus on the sadness painted across her mother's face, her eyes looking back didn’t reflect anything, and at that moment all she could think was how she and her have shared the same body, how there is part of her mind that is a part of her mothers. Lyra wasn’t sure if the feeling in her stomach was the beaming of pride or a knot of fear. In Lyra’s eyes, her mother was a goddess; she could be glorious or terrible, all loving or filled with hate, but she commanded her love either way. The only favourable thing to arise from her father’s disappearances was the realisation of her mother’s sincere love for her.

“I see you’re all ready for bed.”

Marisa quickly batted away a tear and stood up quickly, practicality taking over to attempt to conceal the sadness suffocating the room. Her mother pulled back the covers of the bedspread, a signal that it was time for Lyra to get in, taking the hint she allowed herself to melt back into the pillows.

“Lyra,” her mother hesitated, “our origins don’t define us, it’s what we do with what we have.”

Lyra thought for a moment, took a deep breath, and then voiced her greatest fear.

“Don't they?” she rolled her eyes in desperation, “my...existence has caused so much trouble, don’t you wish it could all be different? I always feel like there is so much…regret...”

She was exhausted and oversharing, knowing she had gone too far too quickly, she sunk even further into the sheets, wishing the bed would just swallow her up. What was she supposed to say? It wasn’t a secret that Lyra’s birth wasn’t exactly planned, or wanted for that matter, she knew the tragic story of her origins, how she was the undesirable outcome of a wild and scandalous affair. She knew how her mother had been viewed ever since, what she had lost, and what people thought of them, all due to her.

“Lyra... Lyra, Lyra” Marisa soothed, gently sitting next to her side. Taking a moment of thought before answering, allowing herself to focus on the purity radiating from her daughter's somber eyes. “Lyra, there's a story behind everything; why I picked those pyjamas, how that scar got on your face, why my favourite colour is blue, sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are more complicated. But, behind all those stories, all your wonderful adventures darling, is my story because mine is where yours began. That, I am sorry for, but you ask me about regret? Let me tell you a few things about regret, my darling. There is no end to it. You cannot find the beginning of the chain that brought us from there to here. The world is tainted with disappointment, but the one thing in this world I will never regret is you Lyra.”

“Really?”

“Of course, darling, never feel as if you are anything else. I love you Lyra Belacqua, and I love the story of how you came to be because you were born from something extraordinary; you were born from love, Lyra, it came to me like a thief in the night, but not the type of love you see every day, the love that comes straight from the heavens.”

Lyra didn’t say anything, she didn’t feel as if she needed to. Focusing on her mother's face, she rolled over, allowing her worries to be washed away in the security of her mother's arm, her head resting just underneath her chin. Pan and the golden monkey curled up at the foot of the bed.

“I'm sorry” she mumbled against her, words getting lost amongst the embrace

“Shhh” Marisa soothed, holding the child tight in her arms, lightly stroking her dark hair, hoping she never had to let her go.

A long while passed, and Lyra found herself drifting in and out of sleep in the security of her mother's arm. The atmosphere had faded from nervous sorrow to serene softness, the quiet, the sense of rest, the slowness of Lyra’s thoughts drifting as calmly as a beautiful carousel. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and be enveloped by the warmth of silence forever.

Marisa only pulled herself away from the child when there was sleep pooled in her eyelids, not wanting to wake her, she gently peeled her arms away, stood up, replaced her spot with a few pillows, and pulled over the covers. Heart heavy with the weight of tonight's conversation, she focused on the small figure in front of her, and at that moment, Marisa knew her life had stopped being about what she wanted and was now about what she could do to make her daughter's life better. Asriel crept back into her mind at the thought, would being a ‘family’ make it better? No, it couldn’t, she reminded herself. As the lights of the city faded from Lyra’s window, Marisa figured it was time to return to the emptiness of her own bedroom, but she knew in her dreams she would have comfort, freedom, and love. Knowing sometimes she could be visited by him, the man who she has lost, and for those perfect hours of sleep, she could be whole again, because she knew that sometimes the word ‘forever’ was for the memories, not the person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I'm wayyy too soft for this family! My main inspiration for this was the scene in the Amber Spy Glass when Marisa talks about loving Lyra, I just wish they could have had a conversation like that! Thank you so much for all the love so far, feel free to let me know what you think in the comments :)


	5. Word hard, play harder

A few days after the chaotic events of Mrs Coulters' cocktail party life had begun to return to normal and Lyra’s daily routine was back in full swing. Routine, her mother said, was key to success and truth be told, whilst there was a part of Lyra that ached for adventure and surprise, life in London truly did change almost every day. Whilst some aspects of her life remained the same, during the holidays Lyra never truly knew what the day was going to entail.

She awoke to the gentle sound of knocking on her door.

“Lyra, it’s nine!”

It was her mother, of course, reminding her that she had once again overslept.

“Coming” groaned the child in return, it was more of an illegible mumble than anything else, a simple reply to signal she was awake and getting up.

Lyra burrowed herself into the warm, soft sheets, allowing herself a few more minutes to curl up with her daemon before facing the day. Sleepily, she began to shed the rest from her brain before rubbing sleep from her eyes, the egg yolk sun had poured through the cracks in the blind, softly illuminating the dark room. Dragging her body up from the comfort of her bed and rubbing her knuckles over her eyes, Lyra watched her legs dangle above the pristine carpet. At Jordan collage, during her childhood, she was like a fiery spark, always hard to put to bed and up with the sun, but London life was far more draining. Always something to do, always somewhere to be.

Just as she was at mid-stretch there was another knock at the door.

“Miss Lyra?” Questioned a quiet voice, one of her mother's household staff.

Knowing she was most likely sent by her mother to check on Lyra progress of getting out of bed, she felt as if the best reply would be showing her face. Shoving her feet into a pair of sheepskin slippers, dyed soft blue, she shuffled to her door.

“Morning Miss Lyra, your mothers out on the terrace” the young girl chirped.

The sleepy girl could only offer a small smile in return, her eyes still getting used to the bright sun shining through the apartment.

Obviously her mother was on the terrace, Lyra thought to herself. They’d had breakfast out there every day since she had first arrived, provided the weather permitted it, and the morning meal had now become one of the many unspoken traditions between her and mother.

“She’s only trying to be polite” muttered the small pine marten, who trudged beside her.

“Oh do shut up Pan” Lyra quipped back in response. It was far too early for comments like that, making her mind drift to wonder about her mother’s chosen mood for this morning.

Sometimes Marisa was bewitching in the gentle hues of the morning light, blooming anew is if she was a beautiful flower reborn. These where the days when the pair would spend almost the entire day out on the terrace in their pyjamas, forgetting all the expectations the world commanded of them, and simply bask in each other's company. They would share secrets and gossip, Lyra would tell endless stories, Marisa would laugh at the girl’s wicked lies, and sometimes they would even begin to talk about their hopes and dreams.

_“Do you ever think of having another child?” Lyra asked, the gentle summer breeze blowing back her unruly hair._

_“Good heavens no! One is quite enough for me,” her mother teased in response, a wide smile adorning her elegant face._

_“Have really never considered it?” The child's eyes gleaming with pure innocence._

_“Lyra you give me quite enough trouble on your own, you really do have a knack for it” she laughed, “why the sudden interest?”_

_“I was just curious.”_

_Marisa grinned at Lyra, how she cursed Asriel for giving her a child who was so inquisitive, “besides, I have everything I want right here.”_

_“But aren't you going to be lonely? You know, when I'm gone?”_

_Her mother took a long slow sip of her coffee, “Oh? And where is it you're planning on going?”_

_“I mean when I begin my further education, St Sophias?”_

_“Well, obviously I will come and live in your dorm with you”, her mother replied in a sing-song voice. Noticing the wide-eyed expression on her daughters face, Marisa rolled her eyes, “don't look so mortified, I was trying to be funny, in all seriousness you will most likely have weekends back here, I know how much you'll need a break. Besides, that’s a long way off from now, you are unfortunately stuck with me for a while longer.”_

The soft spring breeze greeted Lyra as she finally reached the balcony. 

“Good morning darling” Her mother drawled sweetly, tilting her head for Lyra to place a soft kiss on her cheek.

She had not yet taken her eyes off the newspaper in front of her, slowly draining the remanence of her dark coffee. Lyra practically collapsed into her seat at the end of the table, sinking into the soft cushion as if she had jumped back into bed.

Breakfast was soft, buttery croissants and berries, as warm as they would be in the sun, powdered white sugar threaded on top like a light dusting of snow. It remained Lyra’s favourite breakfast, yet that had nothing at all to do with the food. She loved it because it was the first meal she had at her new home, her mother at the end of the table just as she was now, there had been no change over the last four years. It's odd how emotions transfer that way, Lyra thought to herself, as if she couldn’t quite accept how quickly she fell in love. In love with her mother and in love with her new life.

“Not hungry are we?” Her mother's eyes drifting from the paper to Lyra’s untouched plate, it was unusual of her not to instantly dive into a meal.

“No just thinking,” Lyra explained, pulling apart the croissant with her fingers.

“This early in the morning? Careful.”

Lyra slowly focused on the flavours melting in her mouth, melted butter, bitter berries and a flaky sweet crust. The pair sat in silence for a while, soaking up the morning sun whilst finishing the edible delights. She took the time to study her mother, who was slowly picking at a small bowl of fruit (Marisa never indulged in such things as pastries unless there was nothing else), it was something Lyra often found herself doing. She was beautiful, softened at the edges and tempered with a spine of steel, deep down Lyra wanted nothing more than to grow old and be like her, although she would never give her the satisfaction of actually admitting such a thing.

However, it wasn’t long until Marisa attention suddenly diverted from the morning paper to focus on planning out today's adventure.

“I thought we’d go to the Royal Arctic Institute for lunch. Being one of the only female members does have its privileges, so we might as well use it.”

The conversation drifted between today's luncheon plans, her mother's desperate need to buy Lyra some new shoes and upcoming parties the pair simply must attend before the school term restarts. Lyra was intoxicated when it came to London, and the restaurants and ballrooms, the soirees at the Embassies or Ministries, the intrigues between Somerset House and Westminster. Lyra was almost more fascinated by this than anything else in the world; how a small, insignificant child could now lead such a wild and captivating life. What her mother was saying seemed to be accompanied by a scent of grown-upness, something disturbing but enticing at the same time: it was the captivating smell of glamour.

He mother set down her, now empty, coffee cup, “right, let's get to it, plenty to do today, chop chop! Plans to make, clothes to get, lots to do. Come on.”

Lyra was practically dragged out of her chair and hurried back into the apartment by her mother. As they headed their separate ways to get dressed and ready, the girl took a moment to take in her surroundings. Something about her life always felt as if it were a strange dream, so she often found herself taking small moments to remind herself this was truly her world now. In Marisa Coulter's flat, everything was pretty. It was full of light, for the wide windows faced south, and the walls were covered in delicate duck egg blue wallpaper, with the most subtle hints of gold. Charming pictures in gilt frames adorned the walls, reflecting the domestic ideal; Lyra dressed in stiff school uniform, the mother-daughter pair smiling effortlessly at the camera, even a tiny picture of Lyra when she was around five years old, a photo she was forced to take at Jordan which explained the harsh scowl across her face, a tiny robin perched on her shoulder.

“Lyra, we don't have all day” Pantalaimon reminded her, who was scuttling back to their room.

Once she was back into the safety of her own room her eyes flickered towards her bed (which was now beautiful made by one of the maids), how inviting it looked. Remembering the task at hand, she quickly, but carefully, decided upon one of her many dresses: a knee-length, sage green piece, with white buttons and a white-collar, paired with a simple pair of mary janes. Yet, the outfit was only the first thing on the list of personal appearance; hair and face were next.

Lyra’s bathroom was wonderful. It was strange to think of the world where she once washed with hard yellow soap in a chipped basin, where the water struggled out of the taps, lukewarm at best and always flecked with rust. At this home, the water was hot, the soap rose-pink and fragrant, the towels thick and cloudy-soft. Person hygiene was never Lyra’s top priority in her childhood, she often found herself looking back to times where Mrs Lonsdale would fetch her from the Jordan roof simply to get her into the bath, but the older she got the more she took pleasure in personal appearance. Around the edge of the tinted mirror there were little pink lights so that when Lyra looked into it, she saw a softly illuminated figure quite unlike the girl she once knew.

From time to time her mind wandered back to Jordan College, but it seemed insignificant compared to the busy life she led now. Every so often she thought of her old friends and old games and felt uneasy, but there was an opera to go to, or a new dress to wear, or the Royal Arctic Institute to visit, and she forgot them again.

Lyra had learned at an early age was how to get things done, and this was a source of both amazement and concern for her mother who normally considered such behaviour unladylike, but recently, after much practice and help, Lyra had begun to get the hang of personal presentation. Life in London had taught her all sorts of lessons, some regarding her personal education, and other kinds of lessons taught so gently and subtly that they didn’t feel like lessons at all. How to wash one's own hair; how to judge which colours suited one; how to say no in such a charming way that no offence was given; how to put on lipstick, power, scent. To be sure, her mother didn’t teach the latter arts directly, but over time she knew Lyra was watching her when she made herself up, and she took care to let Lyra see where she kept the cosmetics, and allow herself time on her own to explore and try them out for herself. In time, Lyra had mastered such arts with as much ease as Marisa herself.

Taking a few moments to rip apart the last few knots, she decided her curls were as tame as they could be, so she headed back out into the corridor to re-join her mother. Marisa beamed when she saw her; Lyra liked it when her mother smiled and especially when she made her smile.

“You look wonderful Lyra; I really do like that colour on you.”

The pride was practically beaming of her mother and Lyra too felt the same glow.

As they left the grand mansion-block on the Embankment, a stout commissionaire saluted Mrs Coulter, who completely disregarded the figure, and winked at Lyra, who offered a small smile in return.

Twenty minutes' walk took them to Covent Garden, where today's shopping would take place. There wasn't much in Lyra’s life in London that she hadn't gotten used to, but shopping with her mother never failed to make her feel dizzy. To go into a vast building full of beautiful clothes, where people let you try them on, where you looked at yourself in mirrors... and the clothes were so pretty, the concept had never really settled in her brain. In a previous life, Lyra seldom had anything new, and now to find her mother suggesting this, and praising that, and paying for all of it, really did feel foreign no matter how often they went.

With the new shoes acquired, as well as multiple other items, Lyra was flushed and bright-eyed with tiredness, despite the day only just beginning. Marisa ordered most of the clothes packed up and delivered, allowing them to still attend lunch without being swamped in silk and tulle.

Lyra went everywhere with her mother in the holidays, almost as if she were a daemon herself. She knew that after lunch there would still be far more for the day to entail; they might go to tea and meet some ladies, where she would be included in their graceful talk, which was all about people: this artist, or that politician, or those lovers. In the evening they would perhaps go to the theatre together, and again there would be lots of glamorous people to talk to and be admired by, for her mother knew everyone important.

Finally, they arrived at the grand stone-fronted building of the Royal Arctic Institute, where they sat in a wide dining-room with snowy cloths and bright silver on the tables.

“Calves’ liver is all right,” her mother told her, “and so is seal liver, but if you’re stuck for food in the Arctic you mustn’t eat bear liver. That’s full of poison that’ll kill you in minutes.”

As they ate, they discussed the precious relics around the dining room and in the library, something they had done many times before, yet never seemed to get bored of. The harpoon with which the great Grimssdur had been killed; the stone carved with an inscription in an unknown language. But just as they were about to have a deep-rooted discussion about Lord Rukh, who froze to death in his lonely explorers' tent, they were interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Mrs Coulter, Lyra, how lovely to see you both.”

Lyra knew it was the unmistakable voice of Lord Boreal, her body tensing at the sound.

“Lord Boreal how lovely to see you, but how strange? I didn’t know you visited here often.”

“Well, no, I actually heard a rumour you were dining here and thought I'd pay a visit, I have some matters I need to discuss with you,” his eyes drifted to Lyra, who was staring intensely at her plate, “alone?”

His voice was smooth and commanding. His serpent-daemon’s mailed head and emerald eyes glittered in the light from the cut-glass lamp on the wall nearby, Lyra could also see her mother tense in the same manner as herself.

“Now? Why, we were just in the middle of lunch?” She replied gracefully.

“I'm afraid it’s a matter of urgency, Magisterium you see.”

Her mother took a deep breath and sat down her fork, “Lyra, perhaps you could head to the library for a minute? This won’t take long darling.”

It was clearly not a question, and without a word she left the table, allowing Boreal to take her seat.

“Whatever could they be talking about? It's gotta be important,” Pan whispered as they walked away.

“I know, if only you could still change, then we could spy on them.”

But, Pantalamion could no longer change, so admitting defeat they wandered down the hall to the Library. However, only a few steps into the hallway, Lyra got distracted, taking the time to focus on one of her favourite relics: The Arctic Bear skull. For a few moments, the girl and daemon basked in the silence of the cold hallway, getting lost in her own concentration, trying to forget about Boreal’s frustrating interruption.

Yet, it was short-lived.

“I swear that thing gets bigger each time I see it,” an unfamiliar voice declared from behind her.

Curious to see who the mysterious comment belonged to, Lyra turned around to find her eyes settled on those of a boy, who stood only a few steps behind her. He was certainly older than herself, perhaps around eighteen years old, which was indicated in his height, even with her mary janes, she would have been a head shorter than him. His fox daemon slowly advancing towards Pantalamion, who was rather startled by its presence.

Because Lyra was feeling rebellious and uneasy, knowing this was a chance to use her perfected charm, she smiled, “really? I think the older I get the smaller it seems to become,” her eyes pulling away from the boy to focus back on the relic.

“So, you come here often then?” He replied, with the same amount of appeal as herself, seemingly becoming more focused on her presence.

“Yes, practically every day, my mother's a member,” she quipped back at him, her voice dripping with pride. Slowly, she took a step closer to the boy, but she didn’t take her eyes off the skull just yet, not wanting to seem too bothered by the confident figure opposing her.

“Your mother?” The strange boy questioned as if he were confused by the notion.

“Yes, perhaps you know of her, Marisa Coulter?”

“So who does that make you?”

“I'm Lyra, Lyra Belacqua, and yourself?” Finally, she focused back on his face and tilted her head, waiting for the answer.

However, it was a reveal that was going to have to wait, as she felt a pair of eyes practically burning into the back of her head. It was only then did she understand the situation she had found herself in; trapped in a dark hallway with a boy, an older boy, unaccompanied.

“Lyra!” Her mother's unmistakable voice snapped.

She knew she was in trouble. Lyra didn’t have a multitude of rules set that restricted her social life, just as long as she didn’t overstep the mark with the other sex, something she had clearly done here. Boys, men, were something a young girl, like herself, should have no interested in, her mother would tell her over and over. Though the notion was never fully explained, and when Lyra ever questioned it further, Mrs Coulter would always reply with the same answer,

_“When the time comes.”_

Not even bothering to say goodbye, she turned around to face her mother, the scowl on her beautiful face a clear indication of Marisa’s opinion of the situation.

“You are supposed to be in the library," she quietly snapped, not wanting to cause a scene. Causing a scene would only continue to draw attention.

“I was heading there, promise, I just got a bit... distracted.” Her head whipping round to look back at the boy, who had completely vanished. Dragging her eyes back around, Lyra focused on her shoes to avoid her mother's raging eyes, how childish she felt.

“Yes, well I can see that part, do you understand what people would say if they saw you! I’ll have my driver take you home, I’m going to visit the Magisterium and we will talk about this later.”

Her mother was furious, clearly clenching her fists to avoid a public outburst and all Lyra could do was avoid her enraged glare. Just like that, the perfect day was ruined, and all it had taken was Lord Boreal and a stranger in a hallway. Her mother walked out of the Arctic Institute with her hand firmly around Lyra’s, practically dragging her along, the golden monkey extremely close to Pan, who hid right behind Lyra.

Only a second later, they parted ways; Lyra in the car, heading back to the apartment, her mother leaving to go to the ghastly Magisterium. All the girl could focus on was how such a small, insignificant thing could end a day so horribly. There would certainly not be any fancy tea trips or visits to the theatre for her tonight.

“I wonder what he wanted,” inquired the curious pine-marten.

Lyra frankly could not care less about what Boreal wanted, something boring probably. How humiliated she felt, as if she were a child who was caught with her hand in the sweet jar, and how she dreaded having to wait in the lonely apartment, constantly anticipating the inevitable argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to change this fics rating to mature because come on Masriel isn't that likely to stay pg13  
> Not sure how much i like this chapter, had the idea in my head for a while but not sure if i love it now it’s on paper.  
> Really enjoying writing this so far, thank you so much for all the love! Definitely thinking of adding a bit more angst to the story and planned out the next few chapters. Let me know what you think so far, all your lovely comments are really appreciated!!


	6. Camomile

The subtle chime of the elevator signalled to Lyra that her mother had finally returned home.

It had been hours since Lyra had been dropped off back at the apartment and she had spent the entire time on the sofa, listening to the hourly chime of the mantlepiece clock. Watching the sunset from the corner of her eye, the child wondered about how best to approach the upcoming conversation with her mother. For a long time, Lyra had been bickering with her daemon about the best manner to address the situation; according to Pantalaimon, she couldn’t be this enraged about a simple boy, but Lyra thought differently, arguing that she knew her mother’s opinions and rules on the male sex and how she was supposed to act around them, rules she had actively broken. The only thing Lyra and Pan could agree on was how ridiculous the situation was, yet whilst the pine-marten was sympathetic, the girl was absorbed in rage. Her burning headache told her it was time to rest someplace quiet, to ride out the storm within her brain before she had to face another, but she just couldn't relax. Truthfully, she was worried, and as the daylight dwindled the tension in Lyra grew. It wasn’t unlike mother and child to argue, Marisa often explained to her that mothers and daughters with strong personalities might see the world from hugely different points of view, but she felt suffocating dread brewing deep inside her nonetheless.

Lyra had spent her time in solitude filling the kettle to make herself chamomile tea that she had no intention of drinking, her eyes constantly darting to the elevator that refused to ring. There was a part of her that despised her mother at this moment; how dare she run away to the Magisterium and leave her to sit, worrying alone for hours. But there was also another side of her, a side that knew what society required of women like Lyra and her mother, this was a side that understood why Marisa Coulter had to go and why she was in trouble. When the kettle finally boiled Lyra was down the corridor, standing an inch from the elevator door, staring as if she could will her mother to magically appear from inside, visualizing her smile and the scolding tone in her voice as she told Lyra how wrong she'd been, a tone she would simply have to accept. But she also pictured them curled up on the sofa together, Lyras head resting in her mother's lap as she murmured pages of a book softly to her whilst their daemons curled domestically together. It wasn’t that Lyra didn’t have many friends, she did, the truth of the matter was that she was rather popular amongst girls of her age, but it was the captivating air that surrounded her mother that meant Lyra always wanted to be absorbed by her magnificent presence. However, she couldn’t ignore how suffocated the air in this life sometimes made her feel.

The staccato beat of her mother's high heel shoes echoing off the marble floors signified to Lyra that it was time to grin and bear the reality of her mistakes. Curling up tightly on the sofa, she waited, expecting her mother to head straight for Lyra’s own bedroom first, then search around the rest of the apartment. She could feel every single pound in her chest, Lyra didn’t dare move, she didn’t even dare breathe. Yet, just as she expected the sound of heals to begin to grow louder, the fragmented clicks faded and were replaced by the echo of a door slamming at the end of the corridor.

“Did she just-” The girl’s daemon began to question.

“I think she did,” Lyra replied, equally as confused as the pine marten.

Had her mother just ignored her completely? After endless worry, Marisa had simply locked herself away in her bedroom, without a single concern for her daughter. Lyra couldn’t help but feel an anti-climax, surely there was going to be a row between them at some point?

“What are we supposed to do now?” Pantalaimon queried.

Honestly, she wasn’t sure. Lyra glanced back at the mantlepiece clock, seven o'clock, which meant not only had she spent the last five hours alone, but they were also supposed to be having dinner any minute now. With no sign from her mother, she assumed that a meal together was off the table. Was she just supposed to go to bed? Did her mother just expect her to ignore what had happened today, and simply sleep it off? Lyra knew that there was no chance she was going to fall asleep with all these questions racing around her head and making everything worse was the fact that her mother was completely avoiding her. It was cruel.

Lyra felt like she had snapped. This wasn’t fair and she wasn’t willing to spend the rest of the night as unsettled as she was now. She clenched her fists and decided to take matters into her own hands, she was going to have to confront her mother.

She made it halfway down the hall before Pantalaimon ran ahead of her.

“Lyra, if we go in there all guns blazing, we are only going to cause more trouble!”

The ever-sensible daemon was right, Lyra knew she didn’t really have a leg to stand on and shouting at Mrs Coulter for ignoring her wasn’t going to solve anything. But, deep down, Lyra wanted a fight, a fight she would probably regret. She felt like stamping her feet and screaming, the pent-up anger boiling inside her, desperate to escape. Knowing she was going to have to tackle this situation with caution, her mind drifted back to the kettle.

“Tea,” Pan muttered, voicing Lyra’s thoughts, “Camomile tea.”

He was right; over the last four years, camomile tea had become a sort of peace offering between mother and child.

_“Sit up dear, and drink this, can’t say it’ll cure anything, but it will certainly make you feel better,” said her mother, her gentle arm slipped around Lyra’s back and lifted her._

_Marisa made sympathetic sounds and put the drink into the monkey’s hands while she mopped Lyra’s eyes with a scented handkerchief._

_“Cry as much as you need to, darling,” said that soft voice, and Lyra determined to stop as soon as she possibly could. She struggled to hold back the tears, as she pressed her lips together, she choked down the sobs that still shook her chest._

_This person, this woman, was her mother. Her real mother was alive, after all this time. The truth of her parents had finally been revealed and now she wasn’t sure what was real and what was fake, she started to feel dizzy all over again._

_Pantalaimon crept away from Lyra’s hand to sniff timidly at the drink in the monkey’s clutch._

_Her mother watched the girl's daemon out of the corner of her eye, “infusion of camomile. That’s what my mother fed me when I'd been upset. And it worked, most of the time, I_ _was quite the emotional child, by all accounts.”_

_She sat up and took the hot cup in both hands, alternately sipping and blowing to cool it._

Ever since that day, the day the truth had finally been confessed; camomile tea was always used to diffuse the tension.

Truth be told, Lyra was not the most confident when it came to tackling the kitchen, she had never needed to be, but she was able to master the use of the kettle. It was a strange machine, charged by anbaric power to allow water to boil, only just simple enough for her to figure out, though she did try to use it as little as possible.

It was only when she had tiptoed out of the kitchen with two cups of tea in hand, desperate not to spill any of the contents, did she realise the reality of what she was doing. Her mother has shut herself away for a reason, and could very easily just reject her, placing her back to square one. She felt as if she was willingly walking into a lion's den with nothing more than a stick for her own protection. Maybe she should just knock and leave the tea outside? Or perhaps she should just go and hide in her room until tomorrow and forget the whole thing?

Just as her mind was racing, her body betrayed her, sheepishly knocking on the door without her even realising.

“Mother?” Lyra called, the unmistakable quiver in her voice instantly removing any pretence of confidence.

There was no reply.

“Go in,” said the pine marten.

“No, if she wants her space-”

“So, are we going to stand out here all day then?”

She obviously couldn’t do that, not only because her hands had started to burn from the hot cups but because the longer they left the anger to boil between them, the worse the argument would become. She just had to get this over with.

“Just go in and put the tea down,” Pan tried again.

She took a deep breath, placed both cups in one hand, and slowly struggled with the polished door handle. It was not the most graceful entrance, but it was an entrance, nonetheless.

The room was dark, not pitch black, the curtains were still open, but no lights were on. The room was beautiful, much like everything else in the apartment, but somehow it was different. As soon as you entered it was as if you had been transported; somewhere in Paris, Lyra thought, though she had never actually been there, she knew this room is what it must feel like. For this room was her mother’s, and every aspect of it reminded her of that. There was a soft scent of neroli that encompassed the space, most likely due to the magnificent white vanity which was covered with all sorts of bottles and powders, as well as one or two framed photos of herself and Lyra. Next to that was the grand wardrobe adorned with clothes of every colour, fabric, and fur. When Lyra had first arrived, her mother had let her explore the contents, allowing her to pick out her favourite coats and dresses, hoping to organise similar items for Lyra herself. In the center of the room sat the canopy bed, with its beaming white headboards and shining silk sheets, and covered in all sorts of velvet pillows and topped with the softest teal comforter.

That’s where she was sat, on the bed facing away from the door with her legs dangling over the bed, staring blankly into space. She had not turned around when Lyra entered, so now the girl wasn’t sure what to do.

“Mother?” She tried again, but there was still nothing.

Lyra looked around the room; she focused first on the golden monkey, who was sat upright next to her mother, and then the high heels chucked on the floor, and then her mother's hat which was only a few feet away tossed onto the emerald green chaise lounge.

 _Hypocrite, telling us not to throw clothes around_ thought Pan.

Lyra ignored him, now was not the time. She sighed, took a deep breath, and wandered over to the bed, placing one of the drinks on the bedside table.

“It’s camomile,” she explained. The silence between them was deafening, and truthfully, Lyra began to feel rather awkward just standing there.

Not wanting to be in this situation any longer, the girl headed back to the door, knowing she had tried.

“Lyra.”

Lyra stopped dead and spun around, her wide eyes glowing with curiosity and concern. Marisa softly patted the side of the bed next to her, a signal for Lyra to go and sit down. So, she did as she was told and slowly wandered back towards the bed, timidly perching on the edge besides her mother.

_Here we go,_

But there continued to be silence, her mother didn’t even touch the camomile and Lyra couldn’t help feeling that her offer of peace had been utterly rejected.

“How was the Magisterium?” More like, what on earth was so important at the Magisterium which meant you had to leave? However, it was the only thing Lyra could come up with to distract herself from the uncomfortable silence that didn’t include the hallway debacle.

Her mother sighed, “They have...rejected one of my papers... again.” For such a composed woman normally, Lyra thought she sounded defeated, though disdain obviously seeped through the statement.

“Oh...why?” The girl wasn't sure how far she could take this conversation without irritating her mother even further, but as she watched their daemons slowly creeping towards each other, she decided that it was alright to keep pushing.

“I have written plenty of papers,” her mother slowly picked up the camomile, and Lyra watched as her eyes frantically flickered around the room, evidently trying to suppress something, “but they are only published if I agree to let a man...take the credit.” She wasn’t shouting, in fact she practically whispered the last few words, but rage was oozing out of her lips.

Finally, she took a sip of camomile, and Lyra knew that it was her cue to say something. What on earth was she supposed to say?

“So... will you? Let them take it, the credit?”

For a while her mother just shook her head, not as an answer, but as if she was struggling for words.

“I have no other choice,” a scowl started to creep across her face, “I suppose it will have to be Boreal, at least he won’t change too much”

“Well, there is always-” Lyra begun, as her mother turn around to look at her. It was the first time Lyra had seen her face since she entered, it was painted with sadness, but her eyebrows were raised as if she was challenging Lyra to finish that statement. "Father?”

“No.” Her mother replied almost instantly, her tone was evidently firmer than it was before and once again she turned her face away.

“He just might not change anything-”

“No Lyra.” Marisa snapped back, her voice beginning to rise.

There was silence for a while and Lyra sipped at the cold tea, wishing for a distraction.

“Lyra, you have to understand that despite any power you or I have in this world, as women we will often be denied, denied of doctrines, denied of papers, anything,” her mother spat, “I have had to bite my tongue, while they all parade around concocting their fearful little schemes, daring to judge me. If I let a man take the credit for my work, I become instantly inferior, and I will not let _that man_ rule over me like so many others.”

Lyra started to panic slightly, sensing this conversation spiraling out of control, “I was just-”

“No!” Marisa finally shouted, making Lyra jump, Pan quickly clambering back to her side. “We have to be careful, Lyra, there are choices you must make. You need to be sure not to give them a reason to deny you, and that includes not being caught in dark hallways with the opposite sex!”

Finally, the elephant in the room had been addressed.

Lyra opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She understood that she was supposed to be careful and cautious, but this whole argument still felt utterly ridiculous.

“We...we didn’t even do anything! We were just talking about-”

“I don’t care what you were talking about, and neither would anyone else if they saw you,” objected her mother, harshly, remaining extremely still.

Lyra almost laughed; this was bizarre. Rolling her eyes, she tried to explain the situation, “I don’t even know who he was!”

Her mother let out a cruel and scornful chuckle, “and that’s supposed to make it better, is it?” Once again, she turned to face Lyra, a patronising smile adorned on her face.

Feeling as if she had finally snapped, Lyra stood up from her seat, “why is this even such a big issue!”

Marisa too stood up, towering over the girl, as if the argument had now become a battle of power and authority, “because Lyra you can't make those mistakes!”

Lyra felt exasperated, “what mistakes? I’m _never_ even going to see him again, and there wasn’t anyone who saw us anyway!”

“This is only the first step,” her mother shook her head as if she was trying to explain the unexplainable, her voice trembling with anger, “you cannot throw your life away, I will not let a boy ruin it. Lyra stay away from that boy. Do you understand me? He will do nothing but harm.”

“What harm!” Lyra yelled, “I barely even spoke to him!”

“Because Lyra, there are things in this world that you just don't understand, and I will not let you become infected with the same sins and regrets that I have!”

The world became still as her mother's words echoed around the room.

Sins and regrets.

At that moment, the flash of anger protected her from pain, but the longer the silence grew the more betrayal Lyra’s heart felt. ‘Have’, she thought felt so... constant, so present. Lyra continued to face her mother with wide eyes and shaking limbs, how she wished she’d just taken a knife to her skin than speak those words so cold. What her mother had said to her the night after the party was a lie, a disgusting lie to cover up the truth of her feelings.

She wasn’t born out of love, and she existed as nothing more than _sin and regret._

“Lyra...” her mother muttered with concern, she reached up to touch Lyra’s face, but the girl took a step back.

“No.” Lyra whispered, still shaking her head, “no.”

“Lyra, I didn’t-”

But it was too late, Lyra turned her back abruptly, slammed the camomile onto the pristine vanity and walked out the door. But no sooner had she banged the door shut behind her than it opened again. Mrs Coulter was standing there, only a foot or two away.

“Lyra please,” her mother attempted to reason.

But Lyra couldn’t bare it, all she could hear was her heart beating fast in her chest and her mother’s hateful words ringing around her head. Halfway up the corridor, infected with blind rage, Lyra turned around to face her, “You know, I thought after all this time, I would mean more to you than that”, the bitter tone radiating from her words.

Her mother shook her head, but kept her distance, “Of course you-”

“No,” Lyra interrupted, “No, you should have just left me at Jordan Collage, because it is clear that I will never be good enough for my, no matter what I do I am _tainted_ in your eyes, and it’s cruel,” as she spat out the truth, the inescapable tears she’d desperately tried to ignore began to flow out of the girl's eyes.

There was another pause of silence. A silence that pained Lyra the most, because it meant that her mother hadn't denied it.

Marisa took a few steps closer to the girl, “how about I make us some tea and then we can talk about this, calmly.” She was still angry; Lyra could hear it in her voice.

What on earth was tea going to solve, Lyra thought. God, how pathetic she had been to make the camomile, as if her mother cared about how worried she was before her arrival home. Lyra didn’t reply but her mother, taking one last sorrowful look at the girl, headed towards the kitchen anyway. Just like that, Lyra and Pantalaimon were alone again. She hopelessly tried to slow down her wild heart, and relax her white fists, but as she tried to do so, her eyes fell upon something gleaming on a nearby table. A small golden key. The key that opened the elevator, her mother must have left it there after storming back into her room.

“Lyra, don’t,” her daemon interjected, knowing exactly what was racing through the girl's mind.

“Don't be a coward, Pan”

Without giving it a second thought, Lyra grabbed it and ran to the elevator. Shoving the key into the keyhole shaking hands, she punched in the number code, something she had memorised from many years of watching her mother. The doors swung open with a subtle chime, something that her mother certainly wouldn't miss, and Lyra dived in, allowing the doors to close behind her.

“Lyra?” She briefly heard her mother question, but it was too late, she was gone.

It only took a few minutes to arrive on the ground floor and as soon as the doors opened, she began darting towards the main doors, blocking out any thoughts that would change her mind. Avoiding eye contact from a few commissionaires, who she knew would be informed of her disappearance shortly, she hurried through the exit behind an elderly couple and ran for it. 

Lyra had no idea where she was going, she hadn't thought this through, but with her head racing and heart beating, for a moment she felt free. She felt like a child again. All Lyra knew was that she had to get out, she couldn’t be trapped in that suffocating apartment a minute longer. She ran through a maze of buildings and winding side streets as the sky rumbled, and heavy rain bounced off the cobblestones, the city of London glowing with the yellow lights of streetlamps. She wasn’t scared, to a girl who had hardly ever been out of the apartment without a chaperon, this was going to be a grand adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY AO3 IS BUGGING OUT TONIGHT, I have tried to post this chapter so many times but it keeps going weird, please let me know how the layout looks for you because I keep trying to fix it!  
> This chapter is basically angsty mother-daughter conversations with undertones of the patriarchy lol  
> Almost hit 1K hits which is so cool, thank you so much, I really enjoyed this chapter so please let me know what you think! find me on tumblr too @lyracordelia :)


	7. Lyra's London

The more brutal the storm came down, the calmer Lyra’s heart became; bitter gusts of wind bit her face, stung her eyes, and the unforgiving gale whipped at her flimsy day dress. Drops of rain beat against her skin like hammers, and, due to a minor shortcut through the Victoria Embankment Gardens, everything from her dainty Mary Janes to her bare knees eventually became caked in mud. However, Lyra hadn’t even noticed, she just kept on running until her lungs became led, a frantic attempt to escape her head and the wicked words of her mother which still burned a hole through her heart. Lyra had no idea where she was headed, her mind was racing with manic thoughts, all she knew was she had to create distance between herself and that suffocating apartment.

It wasn’t until she couldn’t endure the burn in her lungs any further did the girl finally stop running, allowing herself to catch her breath. Pantalaimon, who was also panting desperately, took the opportunity to finally voice his opinions, “perhaps we could run all the way back to Jordan College?”

“Don’t try and be funny Pan,” Lyra spluttered in between breaths, hunching over to rest her hands on her knees. They both knew Oxford was at least a day's walk from London, an adventure the pair had attempted to tackle instead of attending their first day of school, something her mother was most displeased about. Besides, Jordan wasn’t really their home anymore. Lyra began to wonder if her room was still there, it had been years since she had seen the shabby old bedroom and, by now, it was most likely turned into storage. 

Lyra attempted to focus her thoughts on other things, her heart aching at the thought of Oxford. How long it had been since she left the apartment? It felt as if she had been running for days, yet due to the detour through the gardens, Lyra knew she was still extremely close to home. As she focused on catching her breath, her mind drifted back to her mother; what must she be doing right now? Was she concerned about her daughter's whereabouts? There was a large part of Lyra that hoped her mother was worried, the same way she had been earlier this evening. It was only fair. Yet, the girl couldn’t block out the crippling feeling of guilt consuming her stomach, which was now beginning to take over.

“Maybe we should go back,” muttered the pine marten, who was beginning to worry about how dark the night had come. It wasn’t until Lyra had stopped running had she noticed the change in the sky, it must have been nearing eight-thirty and on a cold February night, if it wasn’t for the glowing streetlamps, she wouldn’t have been able to see anything at all. But Lyra couldn’t bring herself to face her mother, not yet anyway, the idea of tucking her tail between her legs and apologising for running off just made the girl boil with rage. 

London was a huge city, significantly bigger than Lyra’s previous home in Oxford, and it often felt as if there was a stifling number of pretentious men and women swarming the streets during the day. However, at night there were fewer people around, people who paid little-to-no attention to her (despite the odd looks from a few passersby, for it was an unusual sight to see a young girl walking the streets at night, especially a girl who was covered head to toe in mud). The city was encapsulated in an air of comforting loneliness. In the dead of night, despite the anabaric lights, London seemed like an alien world, especially as Lyra was wandering alone with only her small daemon for company. The rather ominous sodium gleam of the streetlamps, or the occasion flickering flare from a stranger’s car, offered little consolation. There were threatening alleys and street corners which Lyra didn’t dare explore, in which the darkness appeared to collect in a solid mass. In this half-familiar environment, it was becoming increasingly more difficult for Lyra to eliminate the overwhelming sense of how threatening the night felt.

So, Lyra continued to wander down the embankment and allowed her mind to find peace in the gentle flowing of the river, making sure she stuck to the lightest paths. The girl slowly wandered past Somerset house, taking in the beautiful sights and sounds of London at night. It were as if she was walking around in a dream and only brought back to reality when glamourous couples, most likely coming back from the theatre, started to eye her up and down. Lyra must have looked like a mess; teary-eyed from the rain, bright red from the cold, and covered in a thin layer of damp mud, she could only imagine what people were thinking. Lyra looked practically savage. Hoping news of a feral-looking girl frantically running around London didn’t reach her mother, Lyra knew it was time to get off the streets.

Just as she was hurrying past another couple, the inviting glow of an open door on the other side of the road diverted her attention, and the more Lyra studied it, the more enticing the building became. The grand old structure reminded the girl so much of Oxford, she couldn’t help but feel mesmerised for a minute; the glorious ivory-looking towers, columns, friezes, arched windows twenty feet high, and the large clock tower that appeared to loom over everything at the opposite end. She allowed herself to be drawn towards its magnificence as if she were a moth to a candle flame. It must have been King George’s College, one of the most prestigious Colleges in London, a polished sign next to the large wooden door proudly declared this to be ‘The Maughan Library'.

“Lyra...” Pan tried to warn her, “we shouldn’t."

A mischievous grin spread across Lyra’s face, it had been so long since she’d had the chance to have a real adventure, and how nice it would be to explore a new building. “Well” she declared to the pine marten, “they shouldn’t leave the door open if they don’t want visitors.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” whispered her daemon. “Behave yourself.”

“It’s a bit late for that. We could just have a look around to pass the time and then we’ll head back,” Lyra was aching to explore. “Stop fussing.”

Pantalaimon didn’t have time to object, as before he knew it, Lyra had darted through the front door. The girl had no idea where she was headed, but as she began to slip around corners and wander through corridors, Lyra made a marvelous discovery; a large round reading room, with an oval table of polished rosewood gleaming in the centre, and what appeared to be an endless number of balconies, which were covered in a multitude of ancient books. Whilst there were very few people around, just a few old scholars, Lyra thought it would be best to avoid running into anyone, she didn’t really feel like having to explain herself. She crept up a graceful banister that curved towards the soaring second floor gallery, trying desperately not to make too much noise on the polished wooden floor. Whilst Lyra didn’t have much interest in the books themselves, she couldn’t help but admire the rainbow of covers that expanded over the walls. They looked as if they had been planted as seeds and grown by virtue of the sunlight that normally filled the room. After hearing heavy footsteps nearby, one of the College scholars most likely, the girl and daemon hurried to a dark corner of the second floor, her head wild with excitement. She was proud of her new discovery. Allowing her mind to drift somewhere more peaceful, Lyra admired the bookshelves; they were truly ornate as if carved by a person with a profound love of literature, adorned with engravings of leaves, autumn berries, and a bird, someone's daemon perhaps. They were so sublime she couldn’t help but invite her fingers to take it in just as much as her eyes. Just as she was getting lost in this world of adventure, her hand reaching out to touch the carvings, someone seized her wrists and twisted hard.

“Lyra! What the hell are you doing here?”

Lyra’s brain stuttered for a moment, her eyes widening at the person who was standing before her, every part of her body going on pause while her thoughts caught up with what was happening. The initial shock of the figure who had emerged brought a quietness within the girl, a moment to feel her emotions change gear and brace her soul for what was to come.

“Let go of me and I’ll tell you,” she didn’t dare look him in the eyes, instead she focused on his tight grip around her wrist.

“How dare you come here!”

They were still for a moment. Lyra, uncharacteristically, had nothing to say for herself, still in shock from her father's appearance. The man bent over her, frowning like thunder. The girl began to twist slightly in discomfort, Pantalaimon caught in the grip of the snow leopard. It wasn’t unbearable, but he did have her caught at an awkward angle. As if he could read her thoughts, he suddenly let go, allowing Lyra to relax a little, gritting her teeth as she soothed the pain with her other hand. The pine marten rushing anxiously back to her side.

“Why are you not at home, where is your mother?”

Your mother. Not Mrs Coulter, Lyra thought. It felt strange hearing someone address her mother with such an air of familiarity and lack of formality, something no one else dared to do- other than him.

“Why are you here? I thought you weren't staying in London?” She questioned, an attempt to divert the attention away from herself.

Typically, he blatantly ignored her, “Lyra, are you here by yourself?”

“No.” It was a lie obviously, but what was she supposed to say? It wasn’t exactly as if she could just explain the argument to him. She just had to make up some miraculous tale instead.

“No?” He repeated, raising his eyebrows, questioning the girl's response. His daemon let out a small chuckle, the first noise she had made between their encounter, which made Lyra blush. “And who are you with? I highly doubt Marisa would be seen here when she knows perfectly well that only scholars and guests are allowed, and certainly no children.”

Marisa. There it was again, the brutal nonchalant. Lyra’s mind was racing in an attempt to dissect her father's words. ‘Only scholars and guests’ meant that he must have been a guest here, but why? She was told he wasn’t staying in London, so why on earth was he here? Why would her mother lie?

Her thought process was interrupted by her father once again, “I also assume your mother doesn't know you’re here. She would never let you leave looking like that.” He eyed the girl up and down, and Lyra’s attention was brought back to her soaking wet hair and the layer of mud that coated her clothes. “Let me see your hands.”

Lyra held out her hands for inspection, staring into his eyes with a scowl, and he took them and turned them over to look at her fingernails. Beside him, his daemon lay Sphinx-like on the carpet, swishing her tail occasionally and gazing unblinkingly at Lyra.

“Dirty. Don't touch anything,” said her father, pushing her hands away. “Doesn’t your mother make you wash?”

“Yes,” the girl snapped. He was clearly treating her like nothing more than a petulant child, “but I must’ve got them dirty after I washed.”

“Where on earth did you go to get into a state like this?”

Lying clearly wasn’t getting Lyra anywhere in this situation, there was no way to plausibly explain how she had ended up in this library, late in the evening, soaking wet, and covered in mud. “I was in the Victoria Embankment Gardens,” she explained, deciding to give as short answers as possible to avoid further questioning.

“And why were you in the gardens?” Her father continued to pry; not because he cared about the real reason, but because he wanted to get to the bottom of why she was here.

“I was running,” she looked at him suspiciously, how many more questions was he going to ask?

“And where were you running to?”

It wasn’t that she was running to anywhere, but she couldn’t say the real reason behind what she was running from.

“I was just running,” she spat, tired of his questions. She plucked up her courage and attempted to push past him.

Her father took a step towards her, stopping her dead in her tracks, his arms firmly crossed. “Liar, I know Marisa well enough to know she would never allow this. Tell me what you are really up to.”

“I'm not up to anything!” Lyra grumbled. God, how tired she was of adults today. At this point, Lyra wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

For a while they just stood there; Asriel with his arms firmly crossed, Lyra staring back straight back at him with a tightly clenched jaw.

“Well,” he began, relaxing from his stance, “I suppose I'm supposed to take you home.”

“No,” Lyra pleaded suddenly, her mind was completely drained, and she clearly wasn’t thinking straight.

“Ah, so you don’t want to go home. That’s why you’re here.” Asriel was putting together the pieces of his daughter's fragmented tale, “Lyra answer me.”

She couldn’t, the truth of the matter was that Lyra was exhausted. She had spent all day trying to impress her mother, only for that to backfire and cause an argument, and now she really didn’t feel like starting another one with a different parent. Parent, Lyra thought, sounded ridiculous when describing Lord Asriel.

_Having an awkward, formal visit with her uncle wasn’t foreign for Lyra, she had them every time he arrived back at Jordan, but this time was different. This meeting was arranged, and he wasn’t her uncle now, he was her father. She sat politely through tea with boring old scholars, but now they had left, leaving the pair alone to discuss the elephant in the room. He had called her to stand in front of him and tell him all the things her mother had taught her so far. She muttered whatever she could dredge up about geometry or history or French, desperate to discuss the real issue at hand- her parentage. But he was simply sat back in a chair, with one ankle resting on the other knee and watched her inscrutably until her words failed._

_“You’re my father, aren't you?” Lyra declared, rather out of the blue, tired of beating about the bush._

_“Yes. So, what.”_

_“So, you should have told me before, that’s why. You shouldn’t hide things like that from people because they feel stupid when they find out, and that’s cruel. What difference does it make if I knew I was your daughter? I would have been so proud. You let other people know, but you never told me. “_

_Her father remained seated, sipping slowly at his tokay, “well, you know now.”_

_And that was that._

How Lyra wished her mind would stop spinning for just a minute, she felt as if she was going to crumble underneath the weight of this horrible day. “No. No, I don’t want to go home! But what does that mean to you? Nothing. Just stay here with your dusty old book and bloody scholars,” Lyra burst out. She was very near to tears, the weight of her mother's words still playing on her mind. She couldn’t handle another parent blatantly rejecting her again today.

“Don’t try and be sentimental Lyra, it’s unnecessary,” he complained, bored of his daughter's emotionally driven conversation.

Lyra attempted to push past him past once more, and this time she succeeded. However, as soon as she had turned her back from her father, he addressed her again, “I suppose I should make sure you get home. Although I don’t have a car waiting, nor will any London taxicab take you in that state.”

The girl was stunned, and if it wasn’t for her exhausted anger, she probably would have been delighted to spend a few extra minutes with her Father.

Before she even had the chance to object, he began to walk in front of her. “Come on.”

Without her wild detours, the walk back to the grand apartment block only took around one-quarter of an hour, though strolling back in silence with her father made it feel a lot longer. He insisted Lyra walked by his side, most likely so he could make sure she wasn’t getting into trouble, always keeping one eye on her. He was a clever man, clearly figuring out Lyra’s mad dash was to escape her mother and he wasn’t willing to risk her running off again. He didn’t fancy having to explain that to Marisa.

Lyra still felt completely on edge, she was now going to have to face the reality of running off. Great, she thought, can't wait to have a fourth argument of the day. But there was a small part of her that cherished the peaceful stroll back home, although her father was practically marching. She didn’t pass up the opportunity to steal the odd glance at him, normally, Lord Asriel frightened her slightly, but in this less formal setting, Lyra felt a small inkling of pride. There was no need for him to walk her back home, other than him being concerned for her safety, which meant, that deep down, there was a real part of him that cared. It was an idea Lyra felt herself cling to.

However, the peace didn't last long. As soon as the pair arrived back at the apartment block, it was evident that mild hysteria had broken out. There were men everywhere, a mix between commissionaires, the less highly commended porters, and a few magisterium officials.

 _What on earth is going on_ wondered the girl's daemon, Lyra was as equally confused.

Sensing what was occurring, Asriel placed a firm grip on his daughter’s shoulder. “You’ve clearly given your mother a great fright,” he murmured as they approached the front door.

Was this all really because of her? She hadn't been gone long enough to even consider the fact that her mother might have called the police. Oh dear, she was going to be in far more trouble than she thought, leaving had clearly only made things worse.

It took at least ten minutes for her father to explain to a few different men that he was simply walking Lyra home, however, that was ten minutes longer than she expected him to stay for. The Magisterium men seemed to have hundreds of questions and began pestering both father and child about the precise events of the evening. Asriel, feeling the girl shivering from the damp, declared that he only wished to give Lyra back to her mother, and then he could answer whatever absurd queries they had. A deal that they agreed upon.

It wasn’t until she was standing back in the pristine golden lift did Lyra’s stomach begin to churn, she was really dreading this reunion and just wanted to crawl into bed and hide from the world. When the door chimed open, her father clearly sensed her apprehension, as he placed a firm hand back onto Lyra’s shoulder- probably to remove any further ideas of running off again.

Her mother was in the living room, perched on the sofa, a glass of wine resting on the table. A glass of wine, really? Thought Lyra, her mother clearly wasn’t worried at all, she simply got the police to do the job that she didn’t feel like doing.

However, that thought was instantly erased as Marisa bolted up at the sound of footsteps on the marble floor, although Lyra didn’t dare look at her, the sadness that suffocated the air was all she needed to feel to understand the truth of how her mother felt.

Her father lightly pushed Lyra towards her mother, removing his grip on her shoulder, “I believe this is yours.” Asriel knew Marisa didn’t really like to share.

Lyra didn’t know what to do, this whole situation was utterly overwhelming. She was in a room with both her parents; it wasn’t a party or a visit to Oxford, it was just a normal day. Well, there was nothing normal about today, but somehow, they had all ended up together. She finally plucked up the courage to face her mother, who was staring straight at her.

“Lyra,” she slowly soothed. At that moment, Lyra couldn’t even remember what they were fighting about in the first place, yet she still couldn’t bring herself to say anything.

Once again there was a painful silence.

“Lyra, why don’t you go and run a hot bath, god knows how long you’ve been in those wet clothes,” her father asserted, as more of a command than a loving gesture. Lyra turned around to face him, only to see that he wasn’t even looking at her, his eyes were fixated on her mothers.

“Yes,” her mother agreed, dragging her focus away from Asriel, back onto Lyra, “I can help you if you like?” It was a strange offer, and she was rather embarrassed by the notion. Lyra hadn't been bathed by her mother in years, although, she knew it must have been an attempt at reconciliation.

“No, no I'll be fine,” the girl muttered in response.

Her mother offered a small, slanted smile, knowing she had been rejected yet again. “Then I'll go and find you something to wear, those clothes are filthy, leave them in the bathroom, well sort them out tomorrow,” she tried instead.

Lyra could only muster a small nod in response, she felt practically destroyed.

However, just as she turned away, her mother tried one final time, “Lyra?” But that was it, as if her mother couldn’t speak the words she truly wanted to say.

The knot in the girl's stomach was easing, but her heart still ached from tonight's events. She couldn’t bring herself to respond, there was nothing to respond with, so she just quickly nodded instead. Hurrying away to the peaceful solitude of her room, Lyra wanted nothing more than to sink her worries away in a hot bath and then crawl into bed, blocking out every thought about this awful evening and the reunion of her parents which was occurring down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asriel making a comeback!! Except he does the bare minimum and Lyra is impressed, verses Marisa who really tries and fails… oops.  
> Also please ignore the slightly off geography of London…  
> Still really enjoying writing this, but chapters will be slowing down as I have a lot of work coming up soon (kill me now). However, please feel free to message me on Tumblr (@Lyracordelia) and send me ideas for upcoming chapters (I might need a touch of inspiration ok)  
> Thanks for all the love thus far, please let me know your thoughts and feelings in the comments below, it's really motivating and I love to hear your opinions :)


	8. Midnight Impatience

Marisa Coulter despised waiting. It gave her time to examine normality, to ask herself questions about ordinary ideas that she would normally take for granted. People who were impatient lacked self-control, as her own mother often reminded her. Impatience was her child self, having a petulant tantrum, and it was high time the grown-up women asked it to have some better manners. She had always, essentially, been waiting. Waiting to become something else, waiting to be that person she always thought she was on the verge of becoming. Marisa waited tiredly for the life she was destined to have. However, this hatred fueled waiting was what caused tonight's outburst. Before Lyra’s birth, Marisa’s life was about waiting for power; she was taught this art at a young age, knowing the importance of marrying for power, spending hours of wasted time attempting to climb up a society that only seemed to oppress her. Before Lyra, before Asriel, she was well on her way to quite some position, but now her world was different. Lyra had changed everything.

As she paced up and down the apartment halls, she attempted to regain some composure, which was slipping away from her each and every second. Marisa cursed herself for crumbling, knowing that she had set herself on a path of stupidity snapping back at her daughter. Lyra was a child, although she must control her emotions better in the future, and she was certainly going to have to remind the girl about correct ways of handling confrontation, it was understandable. She was an adult who should have known better, should have controlled herself better, and now she was paying the price for her own actions.

The moment she heard the chime of the elevator and the closing doors, Marisa knew she had lost her child once again, but this time, Lyra had chosen to leave. How dare she defy her in such a blatant manner. However, the longer the child was gone, the more rage turned to worry. She had originally summoned the apartment commissionaires and Magisterium police to show to her daughter the authority she was able to possess; her mother would find her and bring her home, simply because she had the power to do so. But as time began to pass, love had begun to manifest into worry, and Marisa worried about Lyra. Not once had the girl had a proper opportunity to run around London on her own, even during the school term, but now she was out there all alone without her mother for guidance.

Throughout this intense solitude, the memory of the argument would resurface and Marisa would swallow hard, willing her eyes to remain dry and her mind focused. All she needed was to make sure Lyra was brought back to her safely. Knowing it was better to stay in the apartment, just in case Lyra turned up on her own, Marisa decided it was best to show strength, embody the way forward, and keep her own fears and grief suppressed. Her mind was flickering with anger, guilt, and concern and it wasn’t something she enjoyed at all. The truth was that she had no idea how to tackle Lyra when she got home, _if she comes home, h_ er troublesome daemon reminded her. She could tell the truth. Not all of it, naturally, but some. She felt a little quiver of laughter and the idea but attempted to keep it out of her head.

After another hour had passed with very little news (one of the commissionaires had come to inform her of some rather strange sightings of a girl running around the embankment, who she dismissed almost instantly, not wanting her time wasted with ridiculous theories), Marisa was desperate to shut off her brain. A bottle of wine was the only thing she could resort to in order to calm her soul, yet after settling down on the sofa, she couldn’t help but feel guilty. Marisa firmly gritted her teeth and forced her eyes away from one of the photographs on the wall in front of her; the photo of Lyra on her first day of school, the same school Marisa herself had attended during her childhood. Yet, at that moment, Marisa’s mind wandered back to the frightful row they had earlier that day. Lyra was never the fondest of school, and when the teachers informed Marisa that Lyra hadn’t shown up after lunch, she couldn’t help but panic- a few hours later that day she had learned that Lyra had attempted to walk all the way back to Oxford instead. The memory caused Marisa's stomach to toss, perhaps that’s where she was intending to go tonight? That was the only other time Lyra had attempted to flee, so it would be a plausible notion. She also suppressed the memory of the horrid scolding she was forced to give Lyra after that frightful event- perhaps if she had been softer, Lyra would want to return to her now. But it was her role as a mother to tell Lyra the proper way to behave, whether the girl agreed or not.

Half the bottle of wine was gone when she heard to elevator chime once more. Marisa had given the Magisterium police strict instructions about what to do when information on Lyra’s whereabouts arises; they must come and inform her instantly, so she knew this couldn’t be the arrival of her daughter. The sound of two footsteps on the marble floor led her to assume it was someone coming to share another piece of irrelevant information. But then she felt it; as did her daemon, who quickly jumped off the sofa in anticipation. Marisa didn’t need to turn around to know who had just walked through the door; it was him, it had to be Asriel.

Marisa couldn’t believe her eyes, there they both were. Asriel had brought Lyra home. Her brain frantically attempted to make a new connection, one that brought high emotions of both joy and sorrow. She was in disbelief. How typical it was, it had to be _him,_ he always had the upper hand and, deep down, there was a part of her that resented Asriel for doing so. This was supposed to be her chance, her moment to show Lyra how much _she_ cared. But, at that moment, it wasn’t about her.

“Lyra,” she muttered softly, staring down at the ragged creature before her. The girl hadn't yet looked her in the eyes. Marisa was still processing the enormity of what her heart and soul felt, how lucky she was to have Lyra safe, back with her, but she struggled to suppress the anger that had controlled the last few hours.

The undeniable tension in the room was all-consuming. Marisa couldn’t help but allow her eyes to fall on Asriel’s for just a moment. She had always wondered how the deep blue of his eyes could be such a blazing flame, and how they seem to burn before her. An all-consuming fire.

“Lyra, why don’t you go and run a hot bath, god knows how long you’ve been in those wet clothes,” he finally declared, not yet pulling away from his piercing gaze. She would have allowed the two of them to stay like that forever, to melt into the rarity of the moment if it wasn’t for the child who stood in-between them.

“Yes,” Marisa dragged her eyes away from him, in this moment it was about Lyra. She just wanted Lyra, Marisa convinced herself, “I can help you if you like?”

How Marisa longed for her and yearned for her daughter to feel the same way. 

“No, no I'll be fine.”

Lyra couldn’t even look at her.

“Then I'll go and find you something to wear, those clothes are filthy, leave them in the bathroom, well sort them out tomorrow,” she managed to muster in response.

Marisa had done nothing but given Lyra her heart, and the girl had taken it and tossed it away. People feel with their hearts, but Marisa knew how much her own had been destroyed. Now Lyra was rejecting her once again, she didn’t have the power to feel. As she watched the girl walk away, the loss of her child’s presence created a gut wrenching feeling, as if the world was crumbling beneath her.

“Lyra-”

_I'm sorry._

But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Marisa was drowning in the loss of something she never truly had, and as Lyra walked away, she cursed herself for getting into this position in the first place. After a while of silence, nothing but distant footsteps on a marble floor, it was Asriel who broke the tension.

“She’s headstrong, too stubborn. I wonder if you left it too late to mould her properly,” he said, his voice quiet but oozing with authority. He had taken a seat on the sofa and looked far too comfortable for Marisa’s liking, as she watched him take a long slow sip from her wine glass.

“Why did you bring her home?” Marisa couldn’t bring herself to turn around, her heart was desperate to follow Lyra, but her head screamed to give her daughter space. She felt frozen in conflict, and Asriel certainly wasn’t helping, she needed answers.

“I found Lyra and assumed that she was more yours than mine, so I took her home.”

“Ah, but you didn’t do that for her though... did you,” she pointed out, already knowing the answer. Finally pulling her eyes away from the corridor to slowly turn and face him, a perfectly patronizing smile adorned across her face.

“Lyra? No. Frankly, I don’t care," he murmured with a hoarse voice, “walking her home was a massive inconvenience and I can't waste much more time or resources on her."

“You don’t mean that Asriel or you wouldn’t have-”

“I mean every word of it. The fuss she’s caused is out of all proportion of her merits.”

Marisa couldn’t take this much longer, she had Lyra back and that’s all she required from him. “Then leave,” she challenged, “dislike her if you will, Asriel, but don’t you dare patronize your daughter and then assume you’re welcome to stay.”

How she hated that man sometimes, but did she really want him to go? Deep down, Marisa wasn’t sure. All she knew was that in this moment, Lyra was the only thing that mattered. She had always been, ever since she took Lyra home to London four years ago, Marisa couldn’t let her go. Admittedly, it hadn’t always been easy. Lyra being hot-tempered, stubborn, and unrefined often created arguments between the two, but Marisa did her best to remind her of the proper manner required of young ladies. This, however, was not one of those moments. Something had clearly changed; Lyra wasn’t directly in the wrong on this occasion. Whilst Marisa was furious about the ridiculous disappearance of the girl, as well as the petulant disregard of social requirements earlier in the day, it was her own words that had driven the child to run off.

It was not until she reached the bathroom door, had Marisa realised she didn’t truly know how to tackle this sensitive situation. Lyra had clearly explained she didn’t want her mother's help, and even though the rejection had stung every nerve in Marisa’s heart, she knew it was best to respect her daughter's wishes. Pressing an ear to the door, she could hear the water still softly running.

“Lyra?” Marisa questioned, lightly knocking on the door to make her presence known. There was no reply and Marisa felt her heart drop slightly in the silence. Perhaps the water was too loud? She couldn’t have left again, could she? “Lyra?” She tried again, her voice louder than before, “is everything alright?” It was taking everything she had not to rip open the door and make sure her daughter was ok, and still in her house. You’re being ridiculous, Marisa angrily told herself.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” a small voice squeaked from inside, and a wave of relief swarmed over her.

“Perhaps you and I could have dinner after this? You must be hungry.” The mother tried again, desperate for things to go back to how it was before and erase all memory of this evening.

“I’m really tired, I think I’ll just head straight to bed…if that’s ok.”

No, it wasn’t ok, Marisa thought to herself. This conversation certainly wasn’t over, and the thought of Lyra going to bed hungry just made everything worse, but she knew they were both too angry to have a civilised conversation. Control yourself.

“Well, I’ll go and layout some pyjamas for you then.”

“Ok...goodnight.”

Lyra had ended the conversation; she didn’t want to talk, and it hurt. But it was late and, as soon as Lyra got out of the bath, the best thing for her to do was to sleep. Sleep off the exhaustion and anxiety that had consumed both mother and daughter this evening. They could talk in the morning.

Marisa pulled herself off the door in agony, using all her left-over strength to walk away. She was blind in despair, and how she cursed herself for feeling this way. It was childish, her own mother wouldn’t let her get away with such nonsense. After placing the pyjamas on Lyra’s bed, frantically rummaging around for a matching pair, Marisa let her head rest on the door of the child’s room before she walked away for the night. Her daemon softly raised his hand, every fiber of her being wanted to reject the troublesome creature, to slap it away, but Marisa felt herself accept the offering in a desperate attempt to soothe the unbearable lump in her heart. There they stood for a moment, connected.

But it was not the soft touch of her daemon that supplied the soothing warmth to Marisa’s soul; instead, the steady arms that were slowly slinking around her waist provided the true comfort she desired. As her head remained resting against the door, Asriel, who was yet to leave for the evening, wrapped his arms around her, not as steady as they perhaps once were, but still warm and strong. Marisa felt a thousand memories surge through her, all the times those arms were her only refuge in this cold and controlling world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in her memory. Inhaling his masculine scent of old books, Tabaco with subtle hints of vanilla, and man, she shifted her weight to face the unforgettable figure.

“Your right,” he murmured into her hairline, his arms still firmly gripping at the silk on her waist, “she _is_ unique. To have tamed and softened you- that’s no everyday feat.”

“Don’t patronise me Asriel-“ She began, slowly pulling away from his embrace.

“I said you were right, didn’t I?”

Now she looked Lord Asriel full in the face and stared into his mischievous eyes as if they were the only ones on the planet. “Yes, well I suppose that is something,” she teased, fiddling with his messy collar, her voice low and passionate, her brilliant eyes glittering. “You were supposed to leave,” Marisa reminded him.

“I thought I better stick around just in case the girl ran off again. And, besides, you can’t finish that wine on your own.”

Marisa raised an eyebrow at the notion. Was that a challenge? However, before she could deny the notion, his heat had vanished as she watched the figure turn away into the living room. She followed him, and how she cursed herself for doing so, but Asriel’s warmth had seeped into her being and the snow had started to melt once again. She belonged next to him, like he belonged next to her. Every occasion before they parted, the ache in Marisa’s heart would begin anew and she felt herself clinging to the small moments they had left.

As the two curled up together on the sofa, sharing the one glass, even from far away you could see it. They were drunk. But not from any type of beverage, they were drunk off each other. The way they laughed, kept sneaking glances even though they both knew the other one was looking too, the way they wrapped into each other with a nervousness behind a subtle excitement. They found each other utterly intoxicating. But even in the brief second of calm, today’s events had weighed heavily on Marisa’s heart, and he was the only person she could truly turn to. 

“I have been the worst mother in the world. I let my only child be taken away from me when she was a tiny infant, because I didn’t care about her. I didn’t even think of her for years, and if I did, it was only to regret the embarrassment of her birth.” Marisa admitted, her composure shattering under the exhaustion from this wild evening. “And now she hates me for it.”

“How lucky.” Asriel taunted. Marisa looked at him in utter bewilderment. “Hate is one of the most powerful emotions,” he explained, “she is lucky.”

“Im not so sure…” she breathed, shaking her head.

“Well I am. To harbor such strong emotions for another and having feelings that are reciprocated and shared.”

“You just described love… did you not?” Marisa teased quietly, crumbling before his words.

“Did I?” Asriel smiled, knowing exactly what he meant. “There are close ties between love and hate; snip the cord and watch which way you fall.”

“And where do you?” she implored, shifting closer towards him, intoxicated. “Fall.”

“That’s not important" he replied, tantalizingly placing a curl back behind her ear.

Marisa looked straight back at him, bright-eyed, her lips pursed as if suppressing a smile. She had realised that she had forgotten the precise blue of his eyes and the depth of his laugh, Marisa knew at that moment that home was no longer a place but a person.

“The problem is,” he murmured as he leaned in, “if I kissed you, I don’t think I'd be able to stop.” His hand brushed against hers, and her heart whispered once more to stop, to give back the seconds that she would now live forever. Everything was happening far too quickly. “There is no one with your wicked laugh, your cruel touch, your enticing scent. You drive me mad temptress.” 

Marisa laughed softly as his fingers clutched her wild dark locks, he kissed her slowly, knowing he could take his time. He kissed her as if he had forgotten that any other lips had touched hers. Their daemons bristled, wary and powerful, but with more cruelty than love: the monkey reaching out a tentative paw, the leopard lowered her head with a graceful sensual acknowledgment. They touched, the snow leopard tense, her claws just pressing in the golden monkey’s flesh, and the monkey relaxed, blissful, swooning before her.

“Unlove me, I dare you.” Marisa taunted with her lips gently pressed against his.

Lost in lascivious desires, sharing slow and passionate kisses which soon rocked into wild lust; they began to devour each other. He kissed her stronger, he had to have her, as if Asriel was dying to memorize the feel of her lips against her own. Asriel was all heat and desire and vanilla and Marisa wanted more, drowning in the stolen moment. They felt every inch of each other, ravenous to remember every mark, every dent, as if they could cover their bodies with each other's touch. It seemed as if the whole world paused for them, like they had never truly left each other. Their worlds shattered, melding together in a swirl of unmitigated lust and unbridled love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't have as much time as id liked to sit and think over this chapter as id like to, but wanted to get it up, so ignore if there are a few minor mistakes.  
> Thank you for reading thus far! Don’t worry, more Lyra and Marisa to come!  
> Feel free to leave any thoughts and opinions in the comments, I’d love to hear them :)


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